


break me

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Darkness and humor and a Happy End, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluffy darkness, Monsters and demons and supernatural creatures, Slow Burn, and BATTLE COUPLES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: "Nature doesn't recognize good and evil.  Nature only recognizes balance and imbalance."- Fringe -This way there be monsters.And demons and spirits and supernatural creatures and lots and lots of things which are not what they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To avoid confusion: this is NOT a songfic.  
> It's a fic. Which happens to have a quote at the beginning. Which happens to be from a song.  
> Just so you know.  
> :)

 

 

_misguided angel hanging over me_  
_heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory_  
_soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead_  
_misguided angel, love you 'til I'm dead_  
_\- Cowboy Junkies -_

 

 

It starts small.

There is no warning.  No warning at all.

 

The first time Emma walks into the bar, she is dirty and utterly exhausted and her right shoulder hurts like a bitch.  As it should.  She got thrown into not one, but two walls.

 

There are dust motes in her hair and streaks of grime across her face and she’s so tired she can barely make out the road.  By the time she sees the bar sign up ahead on the right she is half asleep behind the wheel.  So she pulls over and walks in, because she can’t keep driving and because she really wants a shot of something.  Or five.

 

It’s a dive.  At least from the outside.

Inside it’s actually nicer than expected, and almost empty.  Emma walks up to the counter and slides carefully onto one of the stools.  The bartender raises one eyebrow in question and Emma just says, “Whisky, please.  Neat.”

When he puts a rocks glass with a shot of whisky, no ice, in front of her, she has to smile.  Because she’s on the outskirts of a nothing town, in a dive bar by the side of Route Nowhere, and the bartender knows what ‘neat’ is.

And then she forgets about her shoulder and tries to lift her glass with her right hand.

The pain briefly takes her breath away and she bites her bottom lip.  Just short of hard enough to break skin.  Takes a measured breath.  Puts down the glass as gently as she can and proceeds to pick it up with her left.

And empties it.

 

“Are you alright, love?”  The bartender looks at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.  His eyes are very blue.  He also sounds English.  She’s in too much pain to pay attention to any of it.

“Fine,” she growls.  “One more, please.”

His eyes narrow and he studies her for a long moment.  And then pours.

Emma knocks it back as well and closes her eyes, waiting for the edge of the ache to dull.  It doesn’t.  When she opens her eyes he is still looking at her, his face a question he doesn’t ask.

Instead he says, “Another?”

Emma shakes her head and pulls out her wallet.  She puts a fifty down on the counter and slides it across to him.  “Will this do for the bottle?”

He laughs.  “That’ll do.”  And then he adds quietly, “You sure you’re all right?”

Emma shrugs and nearly cries out in pain.

“Fine,” she repeats, her voice gravel and wreckage.  Then she points to the door.  “Is it OK if I park for the night?  So I can get a few hours of sleep?”

 

He studies her face for a long time before he answers, and Emma gets the feeling there are many things he wants to say.  But all that comes out in the end is, “Go ahead.  No one will bother you, I promise.”

It’s odd, the way he says the last bit.

And Emma can more than take care of herself.  If only he knew what she does for a living.

 

But she ignores it and simply nods.  Thanks him.  Takes the bottle and makes her way back outside to her car.  She lies down on the hood and drinks until her shoulder no longer hurts.

Then she stumbles into the back seat and curls up and passes out.

 

When she wakes up in the morning the lot is empty and the bar is closed and locked, and her head is killing her more than her shoulder.  She peels herself from the back seat and then catches sight of the hood of her car.

On it are a bottle of water, a bottle of aspirin, and a thermos.  With hot black coffee.

Emma can’t help it.

She laughs.

 

 

 

 

The second time Emma gets to the bar is several weeks later, and she is in much worse shape than she was the first time.

Actually, she isn’t.  She just looks like she is.  Blood on a face will do that.

 

He looks at her again with narrowed eyes as she slides onto the bar stool, but then Emma puts the thermos on the counter between them and his mouth quirks up.

“Thank you for that,” she says.  “Saved my life.”

He smiles at that and then wordlessly pulls out a plastic bag and starts to fill it with ice.

 

His left hand is a mess of ugly scars, and doesn’t seem to be working right.  It twitches as he tries to fold it around the bag, and he has trouble uncurling it once he’s done.

“Accident,” he says, “a long time ago.”

Emma’s face starts to burn hot.  She had been staring, enough for him to notice, and she cringes and mumbles an apology.  He smiles again, small and wistful, wraps the bag of ice in a dish towel and hands it to her.  She can’t meet his eyes as she takes it, but she manages an honest “Thank you.”

 

It feels like heaven on the swollen left side of her face, even though it stings in the cuts on her cheek and her forehead.

A glass of whisky is placed in front of her, and at that she finally does look up.

“You all right with a shot this time, or will you need the bottle again?”

 

Emma’s ears perk up.  He said _need_ the bottle.  Not _want_.   _Need_.  She wants to bristle and put him in his place, but the fact is, she does need more than this one shot.

Another fact is that she is almost out of money and she still needs enough for gas to make it back to her client so she can get paid.

She pulls out her wallet and counts her money and finally pulls out a twenty.  “Just--- can you give me as much as this will buy me?  And can I sleep in your parking lot again?”

 

There it is again, concern creeping into those blue eyes of his.

 

He pulls out the bottle, still more than a quarter full, and puts it in front of her.  “Help yourself, love.  And of course you can stay in the lot.”

Emma nods and smiles and he asks again, softly.  “Are you really all right, love?”

She pours another shot, drinks, and answers again, “Fine.”

Then she takes the bottle and makes her way out to her car.

 

The next morning she finds the same gifts on her hood: water, aspirin, and a thermos of coffee.

And a granola bar.

With a smiley face drawn on it.

 

 

 

 

The third time she enters the bar is right before closing on a Tuesday night a month later, and this time Emma is in real trouble.

 

She brings her car to a complete stop by crashing it into the parking lot’s fence, and just barely manages to open the door.  It’s a miracle she even made it this far.

Her arms are already numb and she is bleeding from a wound above her collarbone, dark rust stains all down her front.  Her legs give out right as she pushes through the front door with her shoulder and she collapses on the floor, face first.

She tries to move, but her body is no longer responding to any signals.

 

She hears his voice bark, “Everybody _out_.  NOW!” and feels several pairs of feet push past her.  The last set of footsteps stops next to her head, and she can hear him crouch down, and feel herself being gently turned over.

“My god, love, what did you do to yourself?”

 

She can’t answer, because the answer will sound ludicrous to him.  Ludicrous and ridiculous and like she belongs in a mental institution.  When really the things she deals with every day _are_ ludicrous and ridiculous.  And definitely real.

 

It’s not like he can help her.  It’s not like there’s any hope.  It dawns on her with the inevitability of a fate that’s been sealed that she will most likely die on the floor of his bar in the next few minutes.

And that she doesn’t even know why she came here.

She should not be placing this burden on him.

She should have just pulled over and done her dying by the side of the road.

 

But back in her car, gritting her teeth and willing the oncoming paralysis to slow, she had had only one thought.   _Make it to the bar_.

Her entire existence had converged onto this one point.   _Make it to the bar_.

It had made no sense.  It was not even a plan.  There was no hope.  There _is_ no hope.

But a small part of her, a miniscule part of her, had wailed at the thought of dying alone.

 

And she is so afraid.  So very, very scared.

 

She can no longer speak, her jaw locking off, but she does manage to hiss out, “S---sorry.”

 

He doesn’t even blink.  His hands are cool as he examines her wound and then he turns her face towards him and says, “Can you move at all, love?”

Her brows crinkle, because the answer is ‘no’.

And because this was exactly the right question to ask.

 

He simply nods and picks her up and carries her in a few long strides into what looks like an office.  He dumps her unceremoniously on a battered old couch and moves to the wall and pushes a seemingly random spot.  A panel slides sideways to reveal what looks like a safe.  He unlocks it and returns to her side with a jar.  With a purplish blue gel in it.

 

If Emma’s jaw could still move, it would drop.

 

He unscrews the lid and looks at her.  His eyes are worried and serious.

“This is going to hurt so bad, love,” he says.  It sounds like an apology.  “I’m so sorry.  But I’m trying to save your life.”

And then he dabs the gel on the wound above her collar bone.

 

Emma’s world microscopes around the touch of his fingers to her skin, and the searing pain that comes with it.  It feels like a burning hot poker is being pushed into her shoulder.  And then the pain explodes outwards, runs rivers of agony through her body, down her arms to her fingers, down her spine, down her legs, down her feet and back up; torching every nerve ending, screaming up her neck and pounding through her head, until finally, finally, everything goes black.

 

When she opens her eyes again, her lids are almost too heavy.  There is no more pain, and she can’t feel her own body.  Just a general sense of weight, of mass, below her neck.

He is sitting on a chair next to her, holding her hand.  She can’t feel it at all.

 

“You’re back,” he says.  And sighs in what looks like relief.

 

Emma tries to move, but her arms and legs won’t respond.  Her head does, and her jaw is no longer locked.  She can speak again.

“How did---” she croaks, swallows, takes a deep breath.  “How did--- know what to do?”

He smiles.  “I know a Chimera snakebite when I see one.”

 

This time Emma’s jaw does drop.  It’s _impossible_.

 

She can see him squeeze her hand, and his eyes once again grow serious.  “It was a near thing, love.  It was almost too late.”

She tries to move again, and again, nothing.

“Don’t strain,” he says.  “The poison is leaving your body.  You’ll be able to move soon.”

 

He leans back and Emma looks at him as if for the first time.

“Did you---”  She shakes her head, and spends a fraction of a second glad that she can do so.  “How---- how do you know?”

He smiles again.  “Love, you think I don’t know a Hunter when one walks through my door?”

And then his eyes flash red.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Much, much later Emma will think back on this moment and be glad that she was immobile.  Because otherwise she might have done something incredibly rash and stupid. Like kill him.

 

As it is, her brain nearly short-circuits as instinct and sense collide with force.  

There had been no warning.  Why had there been no warning?  Her senses should have gone off like flash bombs the first time she met him, and yet there had been nothing, _nothing._   And still there is nothing.

He blinks and his eyes go back to blue, while every single one of her instincts screams _attack_ , _neutralize_ , _eradicate_ , and still her senses don’t send up a single flare.

It makes no sense.

 _It makes no sense_.

 

She can’t speak, she can’t hear above the howling in her ears; she just watches his lips move as he leans forward to tell her something and then pats her hand and gets up to leave the room.

Her instincts tear a path down her useless limbs like tongues of flame and she strains and she _strains_ , but her muscles don’t respond, not one twitch, not one.  Just the howling in her ears and fight or flight arrested inside her paralysed body and she puts back her head and _screams_.  It is primal fear and rage made sound.

He comes back in, holding a cup.  Sits back on the chair, puts down the mug, takes her hand again, and simply waits for her to stop.  And she does, abruptly, because the utter absurdity of the situation hits her all at once.

Nothing about this makes _any_ sense.

 

He leans forward, his eyes perfectly blue, his expression open and serious.

“Do you really think I want to harm you?”  He doesn’t say, _after I saved your life_ , and he doesn’t have to.

Emma shakes her head.  Her throat hurts.

“This must be so confusing for you,” he continues.

A laugh scrapes past Emma’s sandpaper throat.  Confusing is not the word she would have chosen.  It’s absolutely fucking _disturbing_ , and yet here she is.

“The first thing I need you to know is that I am not a threat, love.  I am not going to hurt you.” He looks so sincere as he says it, and Emma’s senses finally manage to subdue her instincts.  

She takes a deep breath.  Her throat is on fire. “What are you?”  It’s barely a whisper.

He laughs.  It’s bitter and resigned, hopeless.  When he looks at her, his eyes are empty.  “Many, many things,” he whispers. “I’m many things and none of them are good.  But please believe me when I tell you I’m not here to hurt you. I was once a Hunter like you.”

 

_Oh god._

 

“You’re human?”  She grinds out.

“I was,” he says.  “A long time ago.”

She feels a very faint tingle in her right hand and looks down, to where it is folded into his.  She concentrates, strains, and her thumb twitches a little.

“That’s good!”  He says, and looks up, smiling gently.  Then he points his chin at the mug. “Now you have to drink this.  It will get you back on your feet post haste.”

She opens her mouth, but he puts up a hand to stop her.  “Don’t talk. I can see how much it pains you. You’ll have answers soon enough.”

 

With that he lets go of her hand and slides both arms beneath hers and lifts her up into a sitting position.  She can’t hold it. As soon as he lets go, she starts to fall backwards. He catches her with an arm around her shoulders and simply sits down next to her, leaning her against him.  Then he reaches for the mug and lifts it up to her lips.

“I wish I had a straw,” he says.  “Just take it slow, love. I made sure it’s not too hot.”

Then he tilts the cup.  It’s _wonderful_.  It runs like balm down her aching throat and spreads through her body like warm energy.  She can almost feel her nerve endings spring back to life.

“What is that?”  It’s a liquid miracle, whatever it is.

She can feel his grin, even though she can’t see it.  “Old family recipe.”

“I want it.”

He laughs, and oh, it’s so different this time.  Joyful. Lighthearted. She turns her head and he looks like a different person, unguarded and--- younger, somehow.

Her eyes start to droop.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he says.  “It’s supposed to make you sleepy.”

He gets up and gently eases her back down on the couch.  Then he pulls a blanket from the back rest and covers her up.  It’s like she’s being tucked in. For the first time in her life.

He runs his knuckles down her cheek, a soft whisper across her skin.  “Sleep,” he says quietly. “And don’t be afraid. No harm will befall you, and you’ll be good as new as soon as you wake up.”

She wants to respond.

But sleep claims her first.

  
  


 

Emma wakes up with the sun full on her face.  She groans and moves her hand to shield her eyes, and then sits up abruptly.

She can _move_.

She gets up, and although her legs are unsteady, they hold her up as she makes her way to the door.

 

She hears voices as she enters the bar.

Rays of warm afternoon sun fall across the room, dust slowly dancing in their beams.  The bartender and a blond man are in deep conversation, which halts abruptly when she enters.  Both men turn towards her.

“You’re up,” the bartender says with a wide smile.  “And you’re walking!”

Emma nods and smiles back.  “Thanks to you,” she says quietly.  She can’t help but notice that the blond man stays silent.  And _tense_.

Her senses perk up as she slowly makes her way towards them, and by the time she gets to the counter, flares are going up.  Her legs tremble with exertion as she sits down on a stool and the blond man takes a big step back.

“Killian?”  He says, his voice both growling and shaking.  “What is going on here?”

 

Emma’s instincts kick in hard and her whole body tenses as the blond man takes another step back.  And then the bartender’s hand comes down on her wrist like a band of steel.

He holds up a hand towards the blond man.  “Both of you please, relax,” he says, quiet, but commanding.  “I can explain and there is nothing to fear. Right?” His eyes burn into Emma’s and will her to stay calm.

Will her not to make a move until he has had a chance to explain.

She exhales slowly and nods.  The blond man doesn’t move, but stands rigid, rooted to the spot.

The bartender smiles and lets go of her wrist.  “I think introductions are in order. My name is Killian, as you just heard.  And this here is David.” He nods at the blond man. “David is my friend.” His eyes once again bore into Emma’s.  “And he’s also a werewolf. Who spends every full moon chained up in my basement. That’s why he’s here.”

  
Emma gasps.  The blond man does not move.  The bartender’s hand once again closes around her wrist, but lightly this time.

 

The bartender, no, _Killian_ , continues.  “David, this is---” he looks questioningly at her.

“Emma,” she manages to croak.  Just barely. Her instincts are screaming bloody murder and she has a hard time fighting them down.  She concentrates on the rough skin of the hand clasped around her wrist, and it gives her a measure of comfort, a semblance of control.  The tension in her body is making her muscles shake with fatigue and she tries to relax. Exhales a long breath.

“David, this is Emma.  She is a Hunter.” Killian’s voice is soft and without accusation.  He is simply stating a fact. David’s jaw clenches. “She is also just getting over a Chimera bite, so she’s still a little out of sorts.  But she is not going to hurt you.” There are those eyes again, burning into hers.

Willing her to keep a tight rein on herself.

Emma nods.

“Good,” Killian says.  “Now that we all know each other, we can get back to the matter at hand.”

“The matter at hand?”

“Locking me up.”  It’s David who speaks, and his voice is unsure.  But his jaw is no longer clenched and his shoulders have dropped.

Killian motions towards the back door and raises an eyebrow in Emma’s direction.  “Would you like to come see?”

 

 

 

 

“This is---- barbaric.”

David shakes his head.  “It’s necessary.”

 

They are standing in a small room in the basement.  The windows are bricked up and the door is reinforced steel.  At the center a large iron ring has been fixed into concrete and anchored with steel plates held by enormous screws.  A heavy chain runs from it, threaded with wires, ending in a massive collar. The wires disappear in the concrete next to the ring as if it had been poured over them.  It probably was.

The collar, once armed, will send out a bolt of electricity every time the chain snaps taut.

 

“But electric shock?” Emma asks.  “Is that _really_ necessary?”

“We tried without it,” David answers, resigned.  “I broke the chain and nearly broke down the door.  So we reinforced everything and then I thought of this.”  He grins weakly. “Got the idea from those invisible dog fences.”

Killian puts a hand on David’s shoulder.  “It was brilliant. But I do wish there was another way, mate.”

David shakes his head.  “You know there isn’t.”

 

Emma does not want to feel bad for him.  She does not want to empathize with a _werewolf_.  But here, in this torture chamber, she can’t help but feel something.  Something that is dangerously close to empathy.

 

David has stripped down to a wifebeater and shorts, and holds the collar in his hands, checking all fastenings.  Emma can see scars all across his body, but mostly a ring of them around his throat, tough and dark red and angry. Killian takes the collar from David’s hands and puts it around his neck, clicking it in place.  It’s awkward with his damaged left hand. His lips narrow several times in frustration. Or possibly pain.

 

Then David looks up as if he’s listening to something.  “You should get going,” he says to Killian. “Get yourself sorted.”

Emma draws a sharp breath and turns to Killian.  “ _You’re_ a werewolf?”

He smiles at her, wistful and sad.  “No, love,” he says. “I am something else entirely.  But I do get affected by the full moon, so David is right.  I should get myself sorted.”

 

Outside in the hallway Killian locks the steel door and flicks a switch next to it.

“Armed!” he shouts, and they hear David’s muffled acknowledgement.  

Then he leads her back into his office.  The last rays of sunshine bisect the room and Killian hisses as he walks through one.

By now Emma is utterly bewildered.  “You’re not a _vampire_ , are you?  You can’t be.  Your hands are warm.  You breathe like you need air.”

He smiles that same wistful, sad smile at her.  “To explain what I am would take more time than I currently have.”  Emma’s eyebrows rise and he points to the far wall. A smaller version of the ring is bolted into the floor, this time with two chains running from it and no wires.  The chains end in manacles.

 

He walks over and shackles himself.

“This is sufficient to keep me in check,” he says.  “But please, Emma, please don’t be in this room once the sun goes down.  Please.” It sounds like he’s begging.

“What will happen to you?”  She can’t help but ask.

“Nothing good.”  He looks down. “I won’t shift my shape, if that’s what you’re asking.  But--- let’s just say that among other things, the urge to mate becomes an imperative.”

He shudders.  “I don’t have much time.  The bar is closed, you can stay anywhere you want.  My apartment is upstairs and there’s another couch up there.  Or you can sleep in my bed. I bet it’s been a while since you had the luxury of a mattress.”

He looks up, catches her surprised gaze.  “You did sleep in your car every time you came here.”

 

Emma smiles.  Remembers a thermos of coffee on her hood.

 

“There’s food in the fridge.  Just help yourself. I promise I will tell you everything tomorrow.  Answer all of your questions. I promise.” His eyes flash red again and Emma bites down hard on her lip, clenches her fists at her sides.  Wills her body to _stay still_.

“Please go,” he whispers.  “Please. Go now. And do not come back in here, no matter what you hear.   _Please_.”

There is desperation in his voice now, and Emma does not want to add to his anxiety.  And she also doesn’t know how long she can keep her damn instincts in check. Her signals are going haywire.

 

So she nods and turns towards the door and hears him sigh with relief.

“Thank you, Emma,” he says, and it’s the first time he has used her name to actually address her.  She looks back. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, curled in on himself. He’s also resolutely not looking at her, and she knows it’s because his eyes no longer look human.

“See you tomorrow, Killian,” she says, and he smiles.

  
  
  


 

Emma walks back into the bar and contemplates staying in one of the booths for a brief moment, before she has to admit to herself that she is much too curious to remain down there.  So she goes through the stock room again, but this time she follows the stairs up and enters Killian’s apartment.

It’s small and sparsely furnished and exceedingly tidy.

There’s a sofa, which looks battered but comfortable, and a large bookcase against the left wall, stuffed to the brim.  A weathered table with only one chair stands in front of a small kitchenette and the far wall opens to a small hallway with two doors.  One leads to the bathroom, just a shower stall and a sink and a toilet. Behind the other is the bedroom, also tiny. The bed nearly fills the entire space, and it’s perfectly made.  There’s a wall closet, the clothes arranged neatly on hangers and shelves, in precisely folded stacks. All of the clothes are black. The window is behind a heavy drawn curtain.

 

Emma wanders back and inspects the fridge.

It’s full of food - milk and eggs and butter and lunch meat and cheese.  And several steaks. Her mouth waters. Her last meal was a taco, wolfed down by the side of the road the previous day.  She pulls out the crisper drawer and in it are plastic medical bags. At least a dozen of them.

All filled with blood.

 

 _What. The. Fuck_.

 

Emma grits her teeth.  Tells herself over and over that the answers are coming.  Closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then another. And then another.  And then notices that she is grimy and sweaty and there are blood stains all down her shirt front.

No wonder David was tense before he even knew who she was.

But this she can deal with.

 

 

 

An hour later Emma has fetched her bag from the car, has showered and changed and eaten one of the  steaks along with two sandwiches. She feels better than she thought possible, given that her muscles still tense up and convulse without warning, at irregular intervals.

She is also exhausted.  For as long as she slept before it doesn’t seem to have been enough, and her body is heavier than a ton of bricks.  And half as mobile. In the end she simply curls up on the couch and falls asleep before she can even be tempted to take the bed.

 

Hours later she bolts upright with force, launching off the sofa and halfway to the door before her brain catches up.  She looks around slowly.

The room is dark, the light of a full moon throwing crooked, eerie shadows.

Full moon.  Right.

She’s in the apartment of a bartender who is also a creature she doesn’t recognize and has never encountered, currently chained to the floor of his office, riding out the full moon above another creature locked in the basement who is an actual werewolf and doesn’t mind electrocuting himself on a regular basis, just to keep himself in check.

 

Oh _god_ , she needs a drink.

And there is a full bar one floor down.

 

Emma quietly pads downstairs and pulls the first whisky bottle she sees from the shelf behind the counter.  Uncorks the spout and takes a very, very long pull.

And another.

And another.

And then she hears it.

From the direction of the office comes a growling yelp, followed by a groan which is unmistakably pain.

She grips the bottle tightly and cautiously approaches the door, and then the groan turns into a scream.  Of _agony_.

Emma’s breath catches and her hand stretches towards the doorknob.  And then Killian’s face rises before her mind’s eye, begging her not to enter, no matter what.  Begging.

The scream turns into a howl and then ends with a whimper, and something inside Emma twists in aching misery.  She is listening to someone suffer.

 _Nothing good_ , he said.  Emma simply assumed he meant that whatever change he goes through meant nothing good for the world around him.  She is no longer sure. Because it sounds as if ‘nothing good’ applies to _him_.  These are the sounds of a person who is hurting.

 

She can’t bring herself to open the door, because she promised, she _promised_ , but she can’t leave him, either.  So she slides down the wall to sit on the floor opposite the door and drinks while she listens to his cries in the dark.

  
  
  


 

 

When she wakes up again, she is stretched out on hardwood, a crick in her neck and still clutching the bottle.  Outside it is daylight, and everything is quiet. She puts down the whisky and rubs her aching head and then carefully unfolds her limbs and struggles to get up.  She still feels off, but her body seems to be working, and the tremors in her muscles have finally stopped.

She opens the door.

 

Killian is curled up in the corner but he looks up when he hears her, his eyes red-rimmed but blue.  His hands shake enough to rattle the chains and he looks pale and somehow-- emaciated. All the bones in his face are in sharp relief.  She walks up to him slowly, cautiously, and crouches down before him as he struggles to sit up.

Then he looks her over and his gaze grows focused and sharp.  “Did you spend the night right outside of this room?”

Emma averts her eyes like she’s been caught in a lie.

“Oh, love,” he says, his voice a soft admonition.  “You should not have had to listen to that. Nobody should.”

She bites her lip and wants to ask him what exactly happened, but what comes out instead is, “It sounded like it hurts you.”

His mouth quirks a small, self-deprecating grin.  “Aye, that it does.” Then he points to his desk. “Would you mind getting the key from the top drawer, please?”

She looks up at that.  “I’ve been wondering how you get back out of these.”  She points to the manacles and can’t help a small gasp.  His wrists are _bloody_.

But he smiles.  “David usually gets me out.”

“David can release _himself_?”

“Only in human form,” he answers.  “Did you notice a small hole on the inside of the door downstairs?”

Emma thinks back to the room.  “Where the handle should be?”

“Precisely.  It’s just big enough for a human hand to fit through.  Too small for a paw,” he explains. “And you have to angle your wrist to reach the top of the compartment to get to the release.  Which involves pushing two levers together.”

She stares at him blankly.  “Meaning it requires opposable thumbs.”

Ah.  Of course.

“Same with the collar.  Pins you have to push together.”  He nods at her as she slowly gets up to walk over to the desk.  “David usually needs some time to sort himself out after he changes back, and that way he can just let himself out when he’s ready.”

“And you just wait here for him?  However long it takes?”

A shiver runs through Killian and he looks worse than he did just a minute ago.  “There is no alternative. I don’t shapeshift, so I have to lock away the key in a place I can’t get at.”  He leans back against the wall and takes a few measured breaths. Anyone with eyes can see he feels awful.

 

Emma finds the key and unlocks his restraints and tamps down firmly on all the questions she has.  Instead she pulls his arm across her shoulder, careful not to touch his excoriated wrist, and helps him stand up.  
“What do you need?”

“Apartment,” he grinds out, clipped and winded, and Emma nearly has to carry him there.

Once through the door, he walks to the fridge under his own power and then falls to his knees in front of it.  He opens it and pulls out the bottom drawer.

“Close your eyes, love,” he says quietly, not turning around.  “I don’t want you to see this.”

Emma shakes her head.  “I already know what you’re going to do.  And trust me when I tell you that I have seen much worse.”

He hangs his head and retrieves a blood bag.  His shoulders are stiff as he opens the spout.  And then he drinks from it, simply drinks - no fangs, nothing - as if he was holding a Capri Sun.

Emma can’t help it.  She laughs out loud. Of all the things she has encountered in the last 24 hours, this is by far the most ludicrous.  And ridiculous.

 

When he turns around his mouth quirks a reluctant grin, and he looks a thousand percent better.  Color is coming back into cheeks which no longer look hollow and he raises an eyebrow.

“I guess it would look kind of funny to a Hunter.  Just having a quick drink. Of blood.”

Emma has to wipe tears from her eyes.  “Oh, just a little.”

But then his face grows serious once more.  “It’s high time you got some answers, love, isn’t it,” he says, and she nods.  “And you shall have all of them. But first, what would you like for breakfast?  I’m starving.”

  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All you beautiful people with all your lovely comments -- you are making this so incredibly worth it.  
> Seriously. You make me SO HAPPY.  
> THANK YOU.
> 
> Also - strap in.  
> Battle clouds are brewing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....yes, my dears.  
> This is where you find out what Killian is. And also - i finally wrote some action.
> 
> Now take your battlestations. Happy Hunting.
> 
> :)

  


 

 

“I was born in England in 1872.”

And with that, Emma spits her coffee.

 

They are sitting on his couch and she has just finished eating the best scrambled eggs she’s ever had, and now she is successfully wearing her beverage.  Because he looks to be in his early thirties.

 

“You want to run that by me one more time?”

He grins at her as she wipes down her chin.  “It’s true.  I was born thousands of miles away, almost 150 years ago.”  He grows serious again.  “It’s been a very long, strange life.”

Emma just nods and waits for him to go on.

 

“At the time, Hunters were common.  I joined them after my brother died.”  He pauses for a moment and she can tell it is a painful subject for him.  Still.  After more than a century.  So she doesn’t ask.

“It went well for a few years,” he goes on, quietly now.  “Until I heard about a new monster.”

He takes a deep breath.  “I was Hunting mainly in the Lake District.  Just me and two or three others.  We were spread out across such a large area, I hardly ever saw them.  Until suddenly we got an influx of Hunters from all over the country.  Each of them had followed reports of very strange happenings in Windermere.  Lake water turning to blood only to change back to water.  Strange beasts even we had thought to be mythical wreaking havoc across the countryside.  Small, heavy showers of rain that burned straight through your clothing.  That kind of thing.”

A slight shudder runs through him, and Emma gets the irrational urge to take his hand and give him comfort.

“There were whispers on the wind that told of a new evil, ancient and powerful and unnamed.  So we took to calling it the Dark One and we tried to hunt it down.”  His left hand starts to twitch and he covers it with his right, holding fast.  “It took months and months, but I caught up with the Dark One at last.  And faced it down at Brougham Castle.”

He closes his eyes and his voice sounds far away.  “He wore the guise of a man, but he was in fact a demon.  A real demon.  I didn’t know.  I had no idea that all the creatures I had faced, the kelpies and vampires and werewolves and even a cockatrice, could not possibly have prepared me for an encounter with a demon.  And so I was woefully outmatched.”  He rubs his left hand as if it’s in pain.  “There was not even a fight.  It was over before it began.  He caught me and disarmed me, and then he punished me.”

Killian’s eyes open and Emma waits, breathless.  “He cursed me.  To become the creatures I Hunt.  But with a sadistic twist.”  He swallows hard, but keeps his eyes on Emma.  “Because I am cursed and not turned, I have many qualities of many creatures.  Specifically their weaknesses.  And none of their strengths.”

 

Emma gasps.  It sounds cruel beyond measure.

 

When he goes on his voice is so low, she has to strain to hear it.  “I need blood to sustain myself, as well as food.  Sunlight burns my skin, but it doesn’t consume me.  I’m a slave to my baser instincts during the full moon, but I do not turn into a wolf.  I am not preternaturally strong, nor fast, nor do I have heightened senses.  I am immortal, but not invulnerable.  I feel pain like a human, heal as slowly as a human, I just do not die.  I can sustain permanent damage.”

He lifts up his mangled left hand, and Emma takes it.  And squeezes.  Hard.  He looks up in surprise, his eyes large and shiny.  They sit like that for a long moment, her thumb gently rubbing the back of his hand.  He looks at her in wonder.

When he goes on, his voice is a whisper.  “So now you know, Emma.  It was the perfect punishment.  He made me into neither predator nor prey.  Destined to be shunned by both and hunted by either.”

 

So that’s why her senses had not picked him up.

 

When Emma finally speaks, her voice is hoarse.  “I’m so sorry,” she says, because she can think of few fates worse than his.

He smiles sadly at her, and his hand twitches once more.  She doesn’t let go.

 

And then they hear a voice from downstairs calling Killian’s name.

“I suppose David is wondering where I am,” he says, and gets up to open the door.  “It’s all right, mate,” he calls down the staircase.  “We’re up here.  Come and join us.”

 

When David walks in he is fully clothed, and the collar of his shirt hides most of the raw, angry mark around his neck.

“Hungry?”  Killian asks, and David just nods.  “I have steaks in the fridge.  Go and help yourself.”

“I ate one,” Emma whispers, and Killian laughs.

“That’s all right, love, I have plenty.  And you must have been hungry.  That bite nearly killed you.”

David pulls out a steak and a frying pan and turns to Killian, sitting back on the couch.  “You tell her your story?”

Killian nods.  “Most of it.”  He turns to Emma.  “And I have the feeling you are bursting with questions.”

It’s true.  She is.  But her brain is also trying to assimilate the avalanche of information, and so she cannot think of a single one.

“A lot to take in all at once, is it?”  Killian’s eyes are as soft as his voice, and full of understanding.  Emma just nods.  David sits down at the table and tears into his steak and Emma’s mind goes strangely blank as they sit in silence, watching him eat.

 

And then it hits her.  “Those signs you were talking about earlier.  I think they’re happening here.”

Both men’s heads snap up as if on springs.

Emma squares her shoulders and tries not to let her voice waver.  “I usually Hunt all around the country.  Poltergeists and djinns and vampires and---” she hesitates as she looks at David-- “werewolves.  Sorry.”

David merely shrugs.

She looks back at Killian.  “And lots of other creatures, but all of them common and all of them native.”  She shudders.  Killian’s eyes are glued to her own.  “But lately I keep getting calls from this area.  And these are beasts I have never encountered.  Shades.  An Orthrus.  A moroi.  A kishi.  The other night I could have sworn a Wild Hunt howled past me.  And finally a fucking _Chimera_.  None of these are supposed to exist.  And half of them certainly not on this continent.”

 

Killian takes her hand and squeezes it, hard.  “You’ve gone up against an Orthrus?”

“The second time I came to the bar,” Emma answers.  “And I didn’t manage to kill it.  I just barely escaped with my skin intact.”

Killian runs his finger across the healing cut on her forehead and Emma freezes.  He snatches his hand back as if it was burnt.  “Sorry,” he mumbles, and she tries to remember to breathe.

 

“Wait,” David says.  “Are you telling me that you tried to fight all these creatures alone?”

Emma shrugs.  Alone is what she is.  That, more than Hunting, is the definition of her life.  She likes it that way.

“Who else was going to fight it?”  She hears resignation in her own voice.  “You?”  She doesn’t say it with accusation.  She’s just trying to make a point.

David hangs his head and Killian squeezes her hand.  “I do think you’re on to something, Emma.  All the creatures you mentioned, they should not exist.  And if they did, they should not roam these shores.  They could be portents.”  His voice sounds strained.  But he soldiers on.  “However, I think we have to deal with the immediate threat first.  Where was the Chimera?”

“Killian, no.”  Emma can see all the wrong kinds of determination in his eyes.  “Please don’t think you can go after it.  How long has it been since you actively hunted?  You said yourself you are not invulnerable.”

“It won’t kill me.”

“No.”  This is a such a massively bad idea.  Her voice drops to a whisper.  “What if you end up paralyzed?  For life?”

“What if next time you don’t make it back here in time?”  He whispers back.  And his eyes flash red.

Emma recoils.  Killian holds on to her hand.

“I’m so sorry, love.”  His voice is still a whisper.  “They do that whenever I am afraid.”

 

Afraid.

_Afraid_.

His eyes had changed just before he had the previous night, and that could count as fear.  But now, now they’re sitting in his apartment, talking.  No matter how daunting the prospect of a Chimera might be, he cannot possibly be afraid of it _here_.  She thinks back to the first time they’d flashed red, when she had just come out of unconsciousness, paralyzed and half-dead.  There had been nothing to fear then either.

It makes no sense.

Emma is so very tired of things not making sense.

 

And then David lifts his head and quietly puts down his cutlery.  “The wolf could do it.”

  
  
  
-/-  


 

 

“Out of the question.”  Killian’s eyes harden like flint.  “We are absolutely not tranquilizing you.”

 

They have been trying to come up with a plan for an hour, with very little success.  The only thing they have grudgingly agreed on so far is that it will take all three of them to bring down the Chimera.  Even though each of them thinks they would be better off alone.

Currently they are stuck on how to get David subdued again once he’s fully transformed, without him doing harm to himself or others.  And that’s when David suggested horse tranquilizers.

 

“Would it work?”  Emma asks, and David nods.

“No,” Killian says, and it sounds intractable.  “You are not doing that again.”

Emma’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline.  “Again?”

Killian turns to her, his expression resigned.  “When I met David, he was tranquilizing himself, every full moon.  All three nights.”

“It was the only thing that put down the beast!”  David snaps.

“It nearly killed you and you _know_ it!”  Killian snarls and then turns to Emma.  “By the time he came to the bar asking for help, there was practically nothing left of him.  He’d already nearly died from it.  Twice.”

David takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is calm.  “That’s because I injected myself still in human form.  It won’t be nearly as bad if you tranq me while I’m the wolf.”

 

Instead of all the things Emma really wants to ask, what comes out is, “Is that what you do, Killian?  Help creatures in need?”

He deflates and looks down, and David answers instead.  “That’s exactly what he does.  Helps those of us who are trying not to do harm.  That’s the whole purpose of this bar.  A haven.”  He looks squarely at Emma.  “And it would be great if you didn’t refer to us as ‘creatures’.  None of us asked for this, you know.”

 

Shame burns hot across her cheeks, and Killian takes her hand.  “It’s all right, love.  I know you’re trying to unlearn years of experience, of things you knew to be certain.  In just a few hours.”  He looks pointedly at David.  “Give her some time, mate.  She’s doing her best.”

 

Emma has never had anyone stick up for her.  Ever.  She doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

“So you saw I was a Hunter and you still let me in?”

He smiles.  “You weren’t a Hunter when you came in.  You were a person.  You were hurt and exhausted and just needed a place to rest.”

“And a place to drink.”

His smile widens.  “Aye.  That, too.”  His expression grows serious.  “A haven is not a haven if it’s not open to everyone in need.”

 

She lowers her eyes and for the first time it hits her.  The magnitude of his gift.  He gave her a safe place to rest, a truly safe place.   _No one will bother you, I promise_.  He probably protected her from the patrons.  Gave her whisky and water and aspirin and coffee.  And then saved her life.  
_Saved her life_.

Knowing she could turn on him at any moment.  
Knowing she _would_.

“Thank you.”  It’s a whisper, and it isn’t enough.  But it’s all that she has.

He looks at her, his eyes clear, his expression open.  And nods.

 

“So back to the plan,” Killian says after a long moment, still holding her hand.  “There has to be another way.”

David shakes his head.  “There isn’t.  You have some of mine left, don’t you?”

Kilian’s shoulders slump.  “You know I do.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“What about you?”  Emma asks, looking at Killian.  “I meant it when I asked when you last actively Hunted.  It’s not like riding a bike.  These are skills you _can_ lose.”

His eyes are earnest as they meet hers.  “Don’t worry about me.  While I won’t turn, the full moon does bring out my basest self.  Along with a flood of adrenaline.  If one point in time could be referred to as my peak condition, the second night of the full moon would be it.  And that is tonight.”

“How do we get you back to the bar?”  What she means is, _will I have to subdue you, too?_

Killian grins.  “Knocking me out has worked well in the past.  I told you, I’m not preternaturally strong.”

“You want me to punch you?”

“Or hit me over the head with something heavy.  I’ll be feral, it’ll be easy.  Just - don’t use anything that’ll disfigure my devilishly handsome face.”  His eyebrows dance at that, and Emma grins.  “And don’t break my skull.  Please.”  He looks at her.  And he’s serious.

 

Emma laughs out loud, and it just skirts hysteria.  “So our grand plan is to attack once the sun goes down and you both turn, defeat a mythical beast while the two of you have gone _feral_ and can neither follow orders nor work as a team, and at the end of the night I’m going to have two unconscious creatur--- sorry, _beings_ on my hands, one of which will be a wolf twice my size?  Is that what you’re saying?”

 

There is a moment of silence and then both David and Killian burst out laughing.

“Oh _god_ ,” David groans.  “This is ridiculous.”

Killian is wiping tears from his eyes.  “When you put it like that, it does sound---”

“Like a horribly, _horribly_ bad idea?”  Emma cuts in.  “Like we’re all going to die?”

Killian sobers up immediately and twines his fingers with hers.  He doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it.  “You are not going to die, Emma,” he says, and the look in his eyes is so, so sincere.  When he goes on his voice is quiet and determined.  “I know it sounds mad, but it’s the only option we have.”

It’s ludicrous.   _And_ ridiculous.

Then again, ludicrous and ridiculous is what she does.  And she has worked with less. 

She squeezes his fingers.  “So we are doing this?”

He squeezes back, hard.  “Yes, love.  We are.”

 

 

 

-/-  


 

 

 

  


The house is a sprawling abandoned mansion which would not have looked out of place in a gothic horror movie.  It stands on a small hill, dark empty windows staring blindly across a small copse of trees.

The three of them lie in the underbrush, waiting for the sun to go down.

It’s a tight fit, and Killian lies pressed along the length of Emma’s side.  It’s extraordinarily distracting.

They don’t talk.

They just wait.

 

When the sun disappears, time flips to fast forward.

 

David starts to growl.  It’s echoed in a low rumble emanating from Killian’s chest.  Both men are up in a flash and start running towards the mansion.  Killian nearly stumbles twice, and reaches the door just as he doubles over.  But he does manage to open it and step inside.

David collapses in the doorway, howling, and then his body starts to convulse.  His limbs curl in and his spine bends backwards at an impossible angle, until Emma thinks he might break it half.  Fur starts to sprout across his shoulders as he spasms and spasms, and then his mass _doubles_.  
He hasn’t removed his clothes, it’s too cold for that, and they split along their seams as his limbs stretch and transform, as muscles and tendons rearrange and push out and all Emma can think is, _thank god he was barefoot_.

The wolf finally gets up, shakes bits of cotton from its fur, and howls in earnest.  

And then just stands there - suddenly eerily still, snout in the air, just smelling, just sensing - and finally, with a snarling growl, leaps through the doorway and into the mansion.

The entire process has taken no more than a minute, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief.  This was a weak point in their plan, whether David would actually go inside once changed, and not head into the woods and disappear.  One weak point of many.

 

She shakes her head to clear it, and follows them in.

Time slows to nearly a standstill.

 

The mansion is dark but the moon does throw some light across broken furniture and gaping holes in the hardwood floors.  And Emma has been here before.  Remembers the rooms.

She can hear echoes of footsteps and paws and low rumbling growls, but she cannot place their direction and it’s unnerving, unsettling.  If it all goes wrong she has not one foe, but three.

She picks her way through the rubble, as quietly as possible, and then, from upstairs, comes a deafening roar.

A lion’s roar.

_Chimera_.

 

She rips her razor-wire whip out of its harness and runs upstairs, two steps at a time.  Twice a step starts to crumble beneath her, but she’s too fast to fall through them.  _Remember that when you go back down_.

She bursts into what looks like it once was a ballroom, sprawling and barren, the floor laid with stone tiles.  And many, many windows along the walls.

She can see everything.

The Chimera at the far end - the lion’s head roaring, the goat’s head snapping, the snake’s head hissing - and all four legs bent, ready to pounce.

To her left a werewolf, ears flattened, growling, flews raised and baring enormous teeth.

It’s a nightmare come to life.  And Killian is nowhere to be seen.

 

She shakes out the whip, and time flips again to fast forward.

 

Her arm draws back, her wrist flicks with purpose, the razor wire wraps around the lion’s head.

But the beast simply snaps its neck to the left, pulls the handle clean from her grip-- _That’sYourPalmTearingOpen_

and the werewolf leaps, clamps its teeth into the goat’s neck-- _BreakItPleaseBreakIt_

and Killian appears behind it, feral and snarling, brandishing--- is that a claymore?--- and hacking at the snake, but his grip, it keeps slipping---   _That’sATwo-HandedSword_ \-- _YouOnlyHaveOneGoodHand_

and with a scream she pulls out her katana, her swing aimed for the lion’s jaw---

and her world becomes strike, pull, parry, strike again

and again

and again--- _YouAreNotGettingTired -- YouCanDoThisYouCan DO THIS_

until she is thrown sideways, collides with the wall, her head slamming back, connecting with stone---

and everything stops.

 

Emma’s vision slides out of focus.  The world becomes a blur of black and grey shapes.

She can’t hear.  At all.  Not even the ringing in her ears.

She slowly leans forward and nearly vomits.

It takes a long time for her vision to clear.  Hours, it feels like hours.  Like days.

Sound stays muted and far, far away.

 

With a groan she can’t hear she struggles to get up and _oh god_ \--

The snake’s head is snapping so, _so close_ to Killian.  His left hand is not moving in concert with his right and his blows are glancing, glancing at _best._

The beast is bleeding, but so is the werewolf.  It’s howling in pain now.

They are losing.

_They are losing_.

 

And finally, _finally_ , Emma feels the pull.

It hasn’t come on in so long, she’s nearly forgotten about it.

The snake bares huge fangs, rears back to strike, and white light bursts from her hand, burns its head to a crisp.  Even feral and snarling, Killian looks shocked.

Emma stares at her hand, but the sparks are fizzling, and she knows she won’t get to use it again.

She grips her sword tightly, starts to run at the beast, and then, from out of nowhere, comes a short, stocky arrow.  And buries itself deep in the lion’s chest.

Emma turns just as the second arrow whooshes past her.

Behind her stands a woman, crossbow pointed and at the ready.  She has short, dark hair and a look of extreme concentration, and her stance is that of one used to weapons and fighting.

 

_Hunter_.

 

She glances at Emma as she looses the third bolt, and that, too, hits home.  The lion’s roar cuts off with a breathy yelp.

Emma realizes that she can hear again.

The werewolf rears up and pounces, clamps its fangs into the lion’s jugular, and crunches cartilage with deafening finality.

The Chimera is _down_.

 

The woman pulls out more bolts, reloads the crossbow, and a second too late Emma realizes what’s she’s doing; she’s aiming, _she’s aiming_ , straight at the werewolf.

Emma screams "NO!" and launches herself forward.

She is met with brute force in the middle of her leap, and something heavy and solid bears her to the ground.  Killian is lying on top of her.  S _creaming_.

She rolls him off, yells "STOP!" at the woman, who stares at them, blankly, while the wolf rears its head.  There is no time.  It’s about to attack.

Emma pulls the rifle from her back and blocks out the woman, the howling wolf, and Killian still screaming; aims her iron sights and pulls the trigger.  A tranquilizer dart buries itself in the wolf’s neck and it collapses with a whimper.

 

Emma sinks down on her knees next to Killian and breathes for the first time in what feels like forever.

Killian’s screams have stopped, have turned into a low whine.  She turns him onto his back as gently as she can.

He pushed her out of harm’s way.

Saved her from the bolt now protruding from his abdomen.

He’s clutching the shaft with blood-slicked hands.

His eyes flash frantically from red to blue.

 

Emma puts a shaking hand to his stomach and then rounds on the woman.

“Tell me who the fuck you are,” she says, and hardly recognizes her own voice.  “And make it good, because if he dies, you’re next.”

  


 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep forgetting to tell you: i'm ThisOneSatellite over on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

“You’re protecting a _werewolf_?”  The woman sounds incredulous.  And suspicious. And judgmental.  And Emma has no time for any of it.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” she snarls.  “This is your mess and you will fucking help me fix it.”

The woman walks over to the Chimera and calmly pulls her bolts from its chest.  “Mess?” She laughs. “I brought down the Chimera. I saved your life.”

Killian whines and Emma sees red.  “You--- you--- all you did was shoot a few arrows!   _We_ killed the snake.   _We_ killed the goat.   _We_ weakened the lion.  All you did was finish him off!”

Another low whine and Emma turns her head.  Killian’s eyes are blue. And so full of pain.  She reaches out, cups his cheek with her hand. “Killian,” she says softly, “can you hear me?”

His eyes flash back to red.  He growls and it ends in a pitiful moan.  His hands spasm around the bolt.

Somewhere in the back of her head Emma remembers that this will not kill him.  She just can’t believe it. There is so much blood.

“Fuck it,” she snaps, and looks up at the woman.  “We don’t have time for this, _Hunter_.”  She spits out  ‘Hunter’ like an insult.  “There is so much here that you don’t know, and I don’t have time to explain it to you.  Now move your holier-than-thou ass and help me get them downstairs.” She doesn’t add ‘bitch’.  But she implies the fuck out of it.

  
  


The woman takes Killian’s legs and Emma his torso and they just barely manage to carry him down the rickety staircase.  Twice Emma has to warn the other Hunter about the broken steps, twice they nearly stumble and fall. Killian pants and whines as they jostle and bump him, accidentally smashing him into the bannister more times than Emma wants to count.  By the time they reach the bottom, he is unconscious. Emma pulls keys from her pocket.

“At the bottom of the hill is a brown pickup truck,” she says.  “Go and get it.”

The woman raises an eyebrow.  It says, _I’mNotYourLackey_.

Emma fixes her with a cold stare and finally the woman relents.  Takes the keys and walks out the door.

Emma growls in frustration.  No part of her wanted to give this stranger keys to a car.  But the alternative was leaving her here, alone, with Killian and a _werewolf_ , and there was no way in hell Emma was going to allow that.  Sending her after the truck was simply the lesser of two evils.

  
  


She goes back upstairs and looks at the wolf.  It’s _massive_.

In the end she has to pull it to the landing by the hind legs, and then just tips it down the staircase and lets gravity do the rest.  The wolf slides down the steps, and here Emma gets lucky: It’s heavy enough to gather sufficient momentum to carry it past all the broken pieces.  It lands in a heap at the bottom, just as the woman comes back in the door. She nudges the wolf with the tip of her boot, but it doesn’t react. Emma makes her way downstairs for the last time, and looks up at the woman, trying to catch her breath.

The woman hands her the keys.  “The truck’s right outside.”

“Great,” Emma pants.  “Now comes the fun part.”

  
  


 

 

How they make it back to the bar Emma will never know.

They manage to get the werewolf all the way down to the basement and into his cell.  Its fur is matted and bloody in places and Emma can’t bring herself to put on the collar.

“What is this place?”  The woman’s voice is no longer superior.  On her face Emma can see the same shocked surprise she herself felt just 24 hours before.  

And she notices claw marks and faint splatters of blood on the walls.  She missed them completely the first time around, caught up as she was by the chain and the wires.  The wolf had drawn blood in its quest to break free. Many, many times.

“He has a name, you know,” Emma says quietly.  “It’s David. And this is where he locks himself away during every full moon.”

The woman just nods.

“We have to go and help Killian.”  Emma turns to the door. “Now.”

  
  


 

Killian is still unconscious on the couch in his office.  Emma kneels beside him, and then realizes she doesn’t know what to do.  The bolt is still protruding from his abdomen and blood is still sluggishly flowing from the wound.

The woman takes charge.  “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Emma shrugs.  She doesn’t know.

“There must be one around here somewhere,” the woman says.  “Let’s go look.”

  
  


They find it in the store room.  They also locate scissors and a dish towel and a bottle of vodka, as well as a clean sheet Emma gets from upstairs.  When they get back to the office, Killian is whimpering.  
He’s conscious, but not present, and his breathing is shallow and fast.

“Cut his shirt off,” the woman says, “and then hold him down.”

Once she peels back his clothing, Emma draws a sharp breath.  All the jostling and movement has aggravated the wound and it’s large and red and _raw_.

“Hold him down,” the woman repeats, and Emma grabs both his shoulders.  The woman runs her hand up the shaft until Emma hears a _click_.

And then she pulls the bolt free in one swift motion.  It looks smooth, like a stick now. Killian doesn’t react.

“Retractable arrow head.  That way I can retrieve my bolts.  They’re really hard to come by, and fucking expensive.”

Emma nearly laughs.  Because that’s just _insane_.

  


The woman hands her the dish towel.  “It’s a puncture wound. Put pressure on it.”  She combs through the first aid kit and pulls out a surgical needle and thread.  “Now this is well stocked.” She smiles in satisfaction.

Emma looks back at Killian.  His eyes are half-closed and she can’t make out the color.  He’s unnaturally still.

“Shock,” says the woman and then opens the vodka bottle.  “Let go for a moment.”

When she pours the alcohol over the wound, Killian’s eyes roll back and then slowly close.  His body goes slack beneath Emma’s hands.

“Good,” says the woman.  “It’s better if he’s not awake for this next part.”

  
  


 

Half an hour later, she has sewn the wound closed and bandaged it up.  She has emptied the vodka bottle in the process, not all of it on Killian.  He’s still breathing fast, so they elevate his legs and Emma pulls the blanket down from the back rest.

After she covers him up, she sits down on the floor beside him and takes his hand.  She hisses as it touches her damaged palm, but she doesn’t let go.

  


She has never been this tired.

Ever.

Between her temples her head is starting to pound.  She vaguely remembers knocking it into a wall. When she gingerly runs a hand up her neck, it feels like the back of her skull is one large bruise.

  


The woman pulls up a chair and sits down across from her.

“My name is Mary Margaret,” she says quietly.  “But most people call me Snow.”

“Snow?”

“Probably because my hair is black.  Or because my last name is Blanchard.”

Emma looks up, puzzled.

“It’s from the French word for white.”

  


Too much information.  Emma’s brain is on overload and now she merely feels numb.

  


“But that’s neither here nor there,” Snow continues.  “You owe me some answers.”

“I owe you nothing,” Emma mumbles, yawning.  She leans against the sofa, listens to Killian breathe.  It’s slow now, and regular, and she sighs with relief.

“Oh, but you do.  For starters I’m guessing you’re a Hunter like me.”

Emma looks up.  “I was. I was a Hunter exactly like you.  Up until yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“I found out that apparently I don’t know jack shit.”  She smirks. “Basically I was shoved face-first into the mother of all greyscales.”  Then she bends sideways, settles herself across Killian’s chest. Listens to his heartbeat.  Steady and sure.

“It’s a long story, and it’s not my story to tell.  If you want to know, stick around until morning.” And with that, her eyes fall shut.

And she sleeps.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

“Emma.”  The voice is raspy and thin.  “Emma, wake up.”

She comes to by degrees.  Her eyelids are leaden and everything hurts.  She’s draped across something warm and solid, in her ears a regular beat. _ThumpThump_.

_ThumpThump._

_ThumpThump_.

It’s almost hypnotic.

  


Then a hand settles lightly at the top of her head and pain starts screaming down every synapse.  She catapults upright only to fall back on her haunches and presses the heels of her hands into her temples.  Hard enough to see stars behind eyes firmly squeezed shut.

  


_Fuck_ that hurt.

  


“Emma?”  Comes the voice again, hesitant this time.

With an effort she keeps her own voice steady.  “I’m fine. Just--- give me a moment. I hit my head yesterday.”  And then she tries to breathe through the nausea.

It takes some time.

  


When she finally opens her eyes, Killian is looking at her, worry creasing his brow.

He looks worse than she feels.  His face is drawn and pale and his jaw muscle keeps jumping.  Like he’s biting down hard.

He tries to move and then gasps.  His hands fly to his stomach, and he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, before he looks up at Emma.

“What happened?”  he whispers.

She looks at him in confusion.

“My memories during full moon nights are not--”  he winces, “not as clear as----” His voice cuts out with another gasp.  The muscle in his jaw clenches and remains clenched.

Emma scoots closer and lays a hand on where he’s clutching his abdomen.

“You got shot with a crossbow bolt,” she says quietly.  “It was meant for me.”

Her other hand reaches out to rub his shoulder.  “Actually, it was meant for David, but it was going to hit me.  And then you saved my life.” Her voice hitches. “Again.”

  


His eyes stay locked on hers.  “Tell me—-” He grimaces and chokes and grinds out, “Wait.  Can you-- in the safe---”

Emma gets up and walks over to the wall.

“Press--- on the right side, there’s a--- a small---”  He’s panting now.

She runs her right hand down the wall until she feels a small dent.  When she presses down on it, the panel slides back and reveals the lockbox.

“48,” he wheezes.  “37---- 2---”

Her fingers rotate the dial and the door releases.  Inside is an arsenal of strange medication: Pill bottles and glass jars and phials and syringes.  Cool air whispers past her. This safe is _refrigerated_.

“Blue bottle---” his voice is barely above a whisper now.  “Small--- liquid...”

It’s right in front, and Emma uncorks it as she carries it to the couch.  Killian takes it with shaking fingers and empties it all in one go. His head falls back and his eyes close for a moment, before he exhales a long breath and his hands relax.  When he opens his eyes, they are clear and focused.

  


“Much better,” he sighs.

Emma quirks a small grin.  “That’s some painkiller you got there.”

Killian quirks an eyebrow in reply.  “Illegal in all 50 states. And most other countries.”

Emma laughs.  “Then I want that, too.  Along with that miracle concoction you made me the other day.  Speaking of which-- can I make you some? I think you could use it.”  Her hand once again settles on his, lying over his bandage. “You got really hurt.”

“I’m fine, love,” he says.  “Or at least I will be. Don’t worry about me.”

He does look better, and the pain seems to have lessened, but he’s so, so pale.  He turns his right palm up to take hold of her hand, and she can feel it trembling.

“You’re not fine,” she whispers.  “Tell me what you need.”

His eyes are soft as he raises them to meet hers.  “I need to hear what happened.” He struggles to sit up and manages to stay upright.  Barely. His hands start to shake in earnest. “But maybe we can go up to my apartment first?”

  


When they enter the bar, Emma holding him up as he stumbles along, they find Snow behind the counter, making coffee.

“You’re up,” she says, as she looks them over.  “And it looks like you both could use some of this.”  She points at the pot and then nods at Killian. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself.”  Her expression clearly indicates that she would have made coffee whether Killian minded or not, but there is a hint of wickedly dry humor now, where there had been only hard edges before.  “I made enough for all of us. And I really do need some explanations.”

  


It is right then - _right then_ \- that David enters the bar from out of the stock room.

Stark.  Naked.

“Killian, can I borrow some---”  He looks up and sees three pairs of eyes, staring at him.  He blushes fire-engine red. Down to his breastbone. His hands fly to his middle to cover himself.

The corner of Snow’s mouth quirks up along with one eyebrow.

Killian huffs out a faint chuckle.

Emma is not looking at the fact that David’s naked.  All she sees are bite marks and dried blood. David took a _beating_.

  


No one says a word.  They are standing in perfect silence.

And then David turns around with slow deliberation and flees the bar as if furies were chasing him.

Snow pours herself a cup of coffee, calmly walks out from behind the counter, and disappears into Killian’s office.  

Emma looks at Killian.  He simply quirks his left eyebrow at her and smirks.  And then sways. She tightens her grip around his waist.  “Let’s get you upstairs, OK?”

Killian nods just as Snow returns, holding the first aid kit.  

“Send your friend back down when he’s dressed,” she says.  “I can patch him up.”

And Emma thinks Snow might not be so bad after all.

  


 

It takes them a long time to make it all the way upstairs.  When Emma finally lowers Killian to the couch, he’s white as a sheet and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.  He tries to talk, but he’s too busy catching his breath, so Emma simply walks over to the fridge and retrieves a bag of blood.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?”

He just nods.  His hands are shaking so badly, he cannot open the spout, so Emma does it for him.  And then walks back into the kitchen to give him a semblance of privacy. And to make a sandwich.  She’s starving.

  


David walks back in, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, still looking absolutely mortified.  Emma smiles.

“There’s coffee downstairs,” she says.  “Along with a first aid kit and someone who knows how to use it.”

David squirms.  “Did we somehow pick up _another_ Hunter?”

Emma nods.  “We did. You can enlighten her while she takes care of your bloody mess.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“David,” Emma says, serious now.  “I got a pretty good look at you. It’s bad enough.”

David blushes again, and shuffles his feet.  He can’t look at Emma. “She saw me _naked_.”

Emma laughs out loud.  “She’s a Hunter. Trust me when I tell you that once you’ve faced down a Wendigo, a naked man isn’t even a blip on your radar.”  She pats his arm. “Go. Get fixed up. And tell her what you told me last night. It’s high time more of us found out about people like you.”

David looks as if he’d rather walk in front of a firing squad than walk out the door, but in the end he does leave, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.  Expletives, mostly.

  


Emma looks at Killian.  He’s sitting with his head leaning heavy on the back rest of the sofa, eyes closed, taking long, deliberate breaths.  At least color has returned to his face.

She sits down next to him and he turns weary eyes on her, but he smiles.

“I’ll be all right, love.  I’ve lived through much worse.”

She doesn’t want to think about what ‘much worse’ might entail.  This looks bad enough. His left hand rests on his bandage and he’s trying to move as little as possible.  Even with the painkiller, it’s obvious that he’s hurting. A lot.

“Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.  “Tell me everything.”

Emma takes a deep breath.  “We killed the Chimera.”

It earns her a very pointed look.  “That’s good to know, but it’s a far cry from everyth--”  He cuts himself off and sits bolt upright. And then groans, but ignores it, eyes fixed on Emma’s.  
“Magic,” he gasps.  “You have _magic_.  I _remember_.”

  


She puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him against the back rest again.  “Please don’t do that,” she says. “Please stay still.”

“Only if you talk to me.”

“Fine,” she relents.  “Stay still and I’ll tell you everything.”

  
  
  


 

By the time Emma is halfway through the Chimera fight, Killian is holding her hand tightly, fingers laced through hers.  When she tells him she got thrown into one of the stone walls, he stops her.

“Lean forward,” he whispers.  And then runs gentle fingers across her scalp, inspecting the damage.

When he lifts her chin back up to look at her, it is with concern.  “How bad is the pain?”

“Manageable.”

That gets her another pointed look, and an eyebrow near his hairline.  “Please, love. Be honest.”

But the truth is, she’s had worse as well.  So she smiles, to reassure him. “It’s fine.  I promise.”

He studies her for a long moment, running his thumb along her jawline.  And lets it go.

  


“And then?”  he asks, his voice soft, and quiet.

“And then I saw the snake.  It was just--- it was so close to you.  And then I--- I---” She falters and tries again.  “I don’t know what this thing is I have. I just know that sometimes--- that sometimes there’s this pull, and it feels like… like energy that’s mine, but not mine.  I get this really odd feeling, like a current through my body, and then it suddenly spikes and shoots from my hand.” She shrugs. “I don’t know what it is. I can’t control it at all.  But sometimes it helps me.”

Killian nods and squeezes her hand.  “Magic,” he says. “Somehow you have harnessed the inconceivable.”

Emma’s voice is a whisper.  “I don’t think it’s magic. I don’t know if I can believe in _magic_.”

  


“Emma.”  His eyes are sincere, but there’s a spark of humor in them now.  “You Hunt supernatural beings for a living and _magic_ is where you draw the line?”

Emma squirms.  “It just seems---  impossible. More impossible than what I Hunt.”  She rolls her eyes when she sees his smirk. “All the other creatures I Hunt, they seem--- it seems their existence is more likely, somehow.  Even before I encountered the first one, even before I knew they were real, I’d _heard_ about vampires and werewolves and evil spirits.  There’s tons of lore on them. It had to be rooted in _something_.”

“There’s lore on magic.  Probably more on magic than on anything else.”

“Yes, but----”  Emma doesn’t know what to think anymore.  The creatures she has come across up to this point seemed merely improbable, not impossible.  They were all created in some way - bitten or tortured or murdered or turned. But magic - magic is part of a whole other category of ‘impossible’ -- ethereal, intangible, not _real_ \- in every sense of the word.

  


She’s silent for a long moment, and Killian lets her think.  Finally she shakes her head and laughs. It sounds helpless, even to her own ears.  “I’ve spent the last few months Hunting mythical creatures - creatures which were not supposed to be real, even in our world.  We just fought a beast Homer wrote about. _Homer_.  In the fucking Illiad.  And which, by the way, Bellerophon was supposed to have killed.”

“You’ve read the _Illiad_?”

Emma has to smile.  He sounds so impressed.  “I did my research.”

Then she looks up at him and squeezes his hand, makes her voice soft and gentle.  “I’m in the living room of a man who was cursed by a _demon_.  No Hunter I know has ever encountered an actual demon.  They’re not supposed to be able to walk the earth, even if they _were_ real.  Plus, I’ve had casual conversation with a werewolf.  And tried to save his life.” She sighs. “It seems I’m redefining ‘impossible’ on a regular basis.”

“More things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?”

Emma bursts out laughing.  “Did you just quote _Shakespeare_ at me?  Seriously?”

Killian looks flustered.  “Well--- it fit, you know.”

  


She’s about to tease him about wanting to one-up her for knowing Homer when it hits her.  Much, _much_ later than it should have.  She sits up abruptly.  
“Wait,” she says, staring at him point blank.  “Wait a goddamn minute. You knew what a Chimera snakebite looked like.  You knew how to treat it. You’ve seen one before.”

He nods, slowly.  “I have. I came upon one in the Lake District, before---”  He doesn’t finish. But she knows what he means. Before he was cursed.

“I tried to bring it down together with another Hunter.  The snakehead bit him. I didn’t have an antidote back then.  Didn’t know there was one.”

“What happened?”  It’s a whisper. She doesn’t want to ask, but she desperately wants to know.

He looks down, and when he answers, his voice is unsteady.  “We escaped, barely, and he collapsed not even a mile out. I held his hand while he died.  His name was Will.”

He’s silent for a long moment.  Emma rubs her thumb gently across the back of his hand.

Then he looks up.  “We didn’t kill it.  It’s possible that it was the same creature we bested tonight.  I’m starting to think things like time and geography don’t matter nearly as much as I once believed.  Not to them.”

  


Then he tries to change position and can’t suppress a groan.  Emma’s stomach constricts.

“Killian,” she says, and his head snaps up.  It’s the first time she has said his name. “You have to lie down.”

He lets her take his arm and pull him up, and she can hear him bite down on a cry of pain.  But he stays upright, lets her walk him to his bedroom, and gently deposit him on the mattress.  She pulls off his shoes and then looks at his blood-soaked shirt, flapping open where she cut it.

“Will you be all right to change your clothes by yourself, or do you need help?”

If Killian had looked flustered before, now he looks downright abashed; and she remembers that for all his modern mannerisms, he is from a different century.

“I’ll be fine, love,” he says, not quite looking at her.

“Then please sleep,” she whispers.  “You need it.”

He simply nods at her, eyes weary, but shining, and Emma quietly leaves the room.

  
  
  
  


 

When she comes downstairs, David and Snow are sitting on opposite sides of the bar, drinking coffee and _laughing_.  It’s an incongruous sight - the hard-nosed Hunter and the awkward blond werewolf in pleasant conversation.  They both look up as she enters the room.

David’s left forearm is bandaged, and his movements are stiff as he raises his mug; but he seems to be doing all right, everything considered.  Snow is still smiling, and it makes her look younger, and softer somehow. Not at all like the ruthless fighter Emma knows her to be. The hard lines on her face have smoothed out, and now her face is quite pretty; and David looks at her like she’s a treat in a store window he could never afford.  When he turns to nod at Emma, he almost looks guilty.

  


Snow puts down her cup and faces Emma.  “The last hour has been incredibly enlightening,” she says.  “And I honestly don’t want to believe half of it. Are you really trying to tell me that your friend upstairs was cursed by a demon?  An actual demon?”

They both nod.

“And that it looks like this demon has followed him here?”

  


Emma frowns.  Snow makes a point she had not yet considered.  What if the demon did follow Killian here? What if _Killian_ is the reason the demon is back?  What if he’s in real danger?

  


Fear spreads through her chest, thick and fizzy, and it takes her a moment to force it back down.

She turns to Snow.  “I know exactly what you mean.  It goes against all reason - even for us.  And yet it’s true.”

“I know,” Snow sighs.  “I don’t _want_ to believe it.  But it’s hard to argue with facts when you’re standing over a dead Chimera that’s not supposed to exist.”  She shakes her head, a faraway look in her eyes. “So I guess it’s true then, storm clouds are brewing.” Her voice is low, like she’s thinking out loud.

Then she looks up.  There’s resolve in her eyes now, and determination.  

“If there’s a storm coming,” she says, looking squarely at them both, “you’re going to need my help.  So let’s get off our asses and go figure shit out.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...all of you walking down this winding road with me - you are lovely and wonderful and that just needed to be said. 
> 
> Also, there are definitely more battles ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't lie to you: This chapter was So. Hard.
> 
> i wrote the first part and hated it, so i scrapped the whole thing and started from scratch. And hated the second try even more.  
> And then i stood before the appealing choice of losing my mind or letting the story die a long, slow, horrible death -- until the incomparable @profdanglais reminded me to get the hell out of my head and back into my heart. (And *that* is why she's the best.)
> 
> So i took a deep breath and tore this bitch of a chapter to *shreds*.  
> And then i reminded myself that it's all about what i *want* to write, not what i think i *should* write -- and the result lies before you.  
> i hope you enjoy it.

  
  


  
  


“Fire,” Emma bursts out, breaking a long silence.  “I knew something was missing!”

  
  


Her head hurts.

It’s hours later, and Killian’s living room looks like a library threw up in it.

David, Snow, and Emma have made a list of all unusual occurrences and creatures encountered in the last few months, and then nearly emptied Killian’s bookcase.  Which turned out to be stacked full of books on magic and the supernatural. They have been trying to make sense of the signs and portents; so far without much success.

And Emma has mostly been busy trying to keep the pounding between her temples at bay.  Which is not helping matters.

  
  


Now both Snow and David are looking at Emma, puzzled.

“The Chimera was supposed to spit fire,” she says.  “But it didn’t. How is that possible?” She slams the book she’s been holding shut and shoves it from her lap.  “God, I am so tired of things not making sense.”

“I know,” David sighs.  “I feel like I’m trying to put together a puzzle where all the pieces are the same color and none of them fit.”

Snow looks up with a smile that can only be described as gently teasing.  There’s no mocking in it at all as she says, “Were you one of those kids who did puzzles for fun?”

David’s cheeks turn bright red, and Snow laughs.  It’s light and happy and completely incongruous. Emma feels as if she has entered the Twilight Zone.

“You _were_ , weren’t you.”  Still that gently teasing voice.

David mumbles something about puzzles being a valuable mental training tool, and Snow laughs _again_.  She is _flirting_ with David; or rather, getting as close to flirting as the battle-hardened Hunter will let her come.  David looks equal parts ecstatic and terrified at this new development. But anyone with eyes can see that deep down he likes it.

Emma bites her lip to stop herself from grinning as she watches them both.  They’re simultaneously leaning towards and away from each other. It looks like their bodies want closeness and their brains want distance, and they’re fighting both urges.  There is something strangely comforting about it, this sign that life goes on, no matter what happens.

Life always goes on.

Against all odds.

Even for Hunters.

  
  


Emma clears her throat, and Snow’s head snaps up as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over it.  “When you’re quite finished making fun of David,” -- this earns Emma a look that could have reduced a vampire to ash -- “there is still the matter of the Chimera which did not spit fire.  Although it was supposed to. As a matter of fact, it turns out that apart from the original Chimera in the Illiad, the word ‘chimera’ at some point became the general term for ‘multi-headed beast that spits fire’.”  

Her brow furrows.  God, her head _hurts_.

“So, not as unique a creature as I originally thought.”  The last part gets swallowed up by a huge yawn.

  
  


“We’re not getting anywhere,” David says quietly, “and you’re exhausted.”  It is perfectly clear that he means both of them. “Let’s call it a night and start fresh tomorrow.”

Emma wants to protest.  She wants to keep going.  She wants some _answers_ , because the mounting uncertainty is wreaking havoc inside her.  But she is So. Tired. And her head feels like it’s splitting open.

  
  


She looks at David.  “I think you should open the bar tonight.  And ask everyone who comes in about what unusual things they have seen and heard in the last few months.”

David nods.  “I think you’re right.  I was about to go and do that.”

He looks almost as tired as Emma feels, and she remembers his cuts and bruises.

Before she can ask him about them, Snow says, “Are you sure?  Aren’t you tired yourself?” What she’s asking is, _Aren’tYouHurting?_ and Emma can see genuine concern in her eyes.

David shrugs, and then the left corner of his mouth quirks up.  “You could help me.”

And Snow grins.  “Yeah. A Hunter bartender.   _That’ll_ go over.”

David laughs out loud.  “I guess not. You can sleep on the couch in the office, if you want.”  He looks back at Emma. “Since I’m assuming you want this one here?”

Emma nods, and Snow gets up.  “Actually, I don’t need a couch.”  She stretches and groans. “At least not yet.  Since I’m the only one who escaped the fight unscathed, and actually got a good night’s sleep, I thought I’d get started on something else.”  She looks at Emma. “I’m going to go to the Forge. And stock up for the Second Coming.”

  
  


David’s brow furrows.  “What’s the Forge?”

“That’s where Hunters go to get their weapons.”  Snow’s voice is clipped, and Emma thinks about the vast amount of information she has just left out of that explanation.  Then Snow looks at her. “What do you need? I’m loading for bear.”

Emma bites her lip.  “I’m broke. It’s been a while since I got paid for a job.  And I do _not_ want to owe the Blacksmith a favor.”

The grin Snow gives her in return is wickedly amused.  “Don’t worry about that. He owes _me_ a favor.”

And Emma swallows wrong and spends almost a minute coughing.  It’s _impossible_.

“Finally, someone who appreciates my prowess.”  Snow pulls a bottle of pills from her back pocket and throws it at Emma.  “Take this. I know your head has been killing you, and you’re just too stubborn to ask for help.  Which is stupid, by the way.”

Emma opens her mouth to protest, but Snow holds up a hand.  “Save it for someone who gives a fuck. Now tell me what you need, and then take two of these bad boys and go to fucking sleep.  I promise everything else can wait until morning.”

  
  
  
  


Emma dreams of cold.  Of walking through landscapes of snow and icy rivers and an endless expanse of grey and white.  In her dream she just keeps walking, getting colder and colder and slower and slower until she finally drops down into a snow drift, nearly frozen solid.  Her teeth no longer chatter. She’s alone inside this world of ice, alone and hopeless and resigned.

And then she wakes up because of a sudden influx of warmth.

When she opens her eyes, Killian stands above her, spreading a blanket across her shoulders.  His eyes are worried as he slowly kneels beside her and takes her hand. And immediately starts to rub it, his left hand awkward and stilted, his right all the more vigorous.  
“Bloody hell, Emma, you’re freezing.  Did you guys forget to turn on the heat?”

She _is_ freezing.  The room is freezing.  She didn’t think of the heat, didn’t know the night would get so cold, probably didn’t close the kitchen window all the way.  She can hardly move.

“What time is it?”  It’s pitch dark out.  The only light in the room is the glow from the neon bar sign outside, and the waning moon.

“Almost 3 AM.”  Killian runs a hand down her cheek.  “This is no good, love. Get up.”

She’s numb enough to comply without question.  As soon as the blanket falls away, her teeth start to chatter.  Killian groans as he slowly gets up and then takes her hand and simply leads her to the bedroom.

“Get in bed,” he says softly.  “Get under the covers.”

She looks at him blankly.  Her brain is not working. All she feels is cold.

Then Killian puts a hand at the small of her back and gently pushes her towards the mattress and she lets herself fall.  Buries herself underneath the comforter, curled up into the fetal position. She can feel Killian slide into bed behind her, his side stretched out along her back, and so, so warm.

It feels too good to question it.

She falls asleep while she’s still waiting for her toes to thaw.

  
  


When Emma wakes up again, she is warm.

She is lying in the crook of Killian’s arm, her head on his shoulder, her hand fisted into his t-shirt.  There’s a thin sliver of early morning light at the top of the curtains, but the room is dark. Killian’s hand is lazily rubbing her back.

“Better now?”  His voice is warm and sleepy.

She wants to be embarrassed, but it’s hard when it’s too dark to see and she is so very comfortable.

“Much better.  Warm now.” It seems full sentences still elude her.  Her head still hurts, but the pain is duller. It’s a marked improvement from the previous day.  She gingerly feels the back of her skull.

“How’s your head?” He asks softly.

“Well enough to think.”

He chuckles and she tries to make out his face in the dark.  “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to fight another day.”

“Good.”

She can feel his grin against her hair.  “It’s still early.” His voice is quiet. “Sleep a little more.  I’ll get up and make breakfast.”

She cannot bring herself to protest.

  
  
  
  


When she walks into the kitchen, Killian is frying bacon.  There’s a bowl full of eggs beaten with chives, ready to go and become a scramble, and it looks like rolls are warming in the oven.  It’s such a far cry from the fast food biscuits she usually picks up at greasy drive-through windows, Emma stops in her tracks to take in the scene.  She has never had anyone cook her breakfast other than Killian, and the sight of it, the smell of it, is almost overwhelming. This is what she imagines a home would have smelled like.  If she’d ever had one.

Killian smiles at her, but it’s strained.  He’s hunched over, holding on to the counter next to the stove with his left hand, while his right is flipping bacon strips.  The knuckles on his left hand are white.

She walks over and gently pries his fingers from around the lip of the counter.

“Enough standing for you,” she says softly.  “Please go and sit down.”

For a moment it looks like he’s going to object, but then he puts down the spatula and slowly makes his way over to the table.  She can see his jaw clench as he lowers himself onto the chair.

  
  


Emma just barely manages to finish cooking the bacon and scrambling the eggs.  This is not her forte, and Killian grins as he gives her directions. Grins, but does not make a single comment about the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with something as simple as eggs and a frying pan.

  
  


David walks in just as she brings the plates to the table.  He’s holding two plastic chairs.

“Could smell the bacon from the parking lot,” he says.  “And also thought we ought to not sit on the floor every time we eat.  You got enough for me? I’m starving.”

Killian nods, and Emma brings another plate, and then there are at least five minutes of complete silence as the three of them demolish every scrap of food on the table.

  
  


Finally Killian leans back with a sigh.  “I think we need help.”

David nods.  “I didn’t find out anything useful last night.  Just a general sense of unease. Everybody’s on edge, but they don’t know why.”

Killian pats his shoulder.  “Thanks for keeping the bar open, mate.  I appreciate it. But I think it’s time we got outside assistance.”

Emma can feel her eyebrows rise, but David nods again.  “It’s time for the library.” He looks at Emma. “If you can handle yourself.”

“Are you asking me whether I can handle a _library_?”  And then she sees David’s smirk and rolls her eyes.  She turns to Killian. “I take it your librarian isn’t entirely human?”

“Vampire,” Killian answers.  “And also a lovely girl, whose name is Belle, and who helps keep my supply stocked from the county blood bank, among other things.”

Emma feels a small, tight squeeze in her chest at Killian’s use of the words ‘lovely girl’.  She shakes her head and promptly hisses, because it still hurts. Killian pulls his left hand up, uncurls it with some difficulty, and then gently puts it to the back of her head, feeling her injury.

“Still painful?”  His voice is low. “Remind me to give you something for that when we go downstairs.”

Emma shakes her head again, much more carefully this time.  “Keep your painkillers. You’re going to need all of them yourself.”

Killian looks like he’s going to protest, but she cuts him off.  “OK. So your local librarian is a vampire. I can handle that.”

“Her girlfriend is a shapeshifter,” David says.  “And she’ll most likely be there, too.”

The small, tight squeeze in Emma’s chest releases all at once at the word ‘girlfriend’, and she bites her lip, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, nodding at Killian.  “Neither of those is my Primary.”

David’s brow furrows.  “Primary?”

Emma shrugs.  “Every Hunter is different.  We all have instincts and senses that alert us to various crea--   _beings_ , god - am I ever going to get that right?”

David smiles.  “I appreciate you trying.”

“Great.  I get an A for effort.”  Emma gives him a self-deprecating grin.  “Anyway, we have a general radar for everything supernatural, but each Hunter usually has a _being_ to which they’re especially sensitive.  That’s your Primary. And usually the ones you end up Hunting more often than others.  Kind of like a specialty.” She groans. “God that sounds so wrong. I’m sorry.”

Killian’s hand moves back down to awkwardly pat her leg.  “It’s all right, love,” he says. “We know the world you come from.  And how black and white tends to be.” He smiles at her, and she is grateful for it.

“I had no idea,”  David says, slowly, and then looks at Emma.  “What’s yours?”

She bites her lip again, hard, and then shakes her head, wincing.  “Werewolves.”

There is a long moment of silence.  And then all three of them laugh out loud.

  
  
  


David decides to stay behind at the bar, for reasons which he insists have everything to do with Killian expecting a shipment of alcohol and nothing to do with the fact that Snow is due back in the afternoon.

Emma checks Killian’s wound, applies healing ointment and changes his bandages, and refuses to take any of his painkillers while forcing him to empty another one of the blue bottles.  But she does take two of Snow’s pills.

After a short car ride that makes Killian wince at every turn they take, they find themselves outside an unassuming building sporting the words ‘Public Library’ in faded blue letters.  The wooden double doors at the entrance look _very_ solid.

Killian puts his hand on the door handle.  “Ready?”

Emma takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods.  “Yes,” she says, her voice nice and firm. “I can do this. Lead the way.”

  
  


Belle is a pretty brunette with a generous smile, and her library just happens to have the largest collection of books on the occult, magic, and all things supernatural in the state.  Probably the surrounding states. Maybe even the Library of Congress.

When she shakes her hand, Belle’s skin is cold, and Emma feels a slight tingling.  But it is surprisingly easy to tamp down on her instincts. Belle’s eyes are normal, and open, and friendly, and her teeth are even and without fangs.  It goes a long way towards making Emma comfortable.

  
  


“Off to the couch with you,” Belle tells Killian as soon as she takes a good look at his pale face, and Emma breathes a small sigh of relief.  There is a couch. Good. The car ride did not do Killian any favors, and his hands are trembling slightly with the exertion of just staying upright.  She lets him walk to the sofa under his own power, but she watches him like a hawk, just in case he decides to keel over.

He doesn’t.  But his breathing is heavy by the time he sits down.  

Emma lowers herself onto the floor next to the couch, and Killian shifts his leg so his calf is pressed against her side.  He keeps physical contact with her much of the time, and it’s strange how little she minds. She usually needs a lot of personal space.

“So,” Belle says, pulling up a chair and opening a notebook.  “What can I help you with?”

“Odd things are happening,” Emma sighs.  “Odd things and bad things. And we need some answers, we need to make sense of them.  Because I have a feeling that _very_ bad things are coming.”

Belle nods, serious.  “Tell me everything.”

  
  


They’re in the middle of recounting every last thing they know, the librarian taking copious notes, when they hear the doors slam open and a loud voice calls out, “Hey!  Bookworm! You in here?”

Firm, high-heeled steps make a beeline towards them, and then a tall, gorgeous brunette rounds the bookcase next to the sofa.  When she sees Emma, she stops short and stares. Silent. And tense.

Emma’s muscles tighten but Killian’s hand comes down on her shoulder, rubbing it lightly, and she realizes that her instincts are well under control.  Better than they ever have been. She exhales slowly, forces herself to relax, and pats Killian’s hand in reassurance. She even manages a small smile.

  
  


Belle nods at the woman, her eyes warm and fond.  “Hi Ruby,” she says. “Meet my new friend, Emma.” She turns.  “Emma, this is Ruby. The love of my life.”

Ruby’s grin could not be more besotted, but her eyes remain wary and alert.  “You made friends with a _Hunter_?”  It sounds like she thinks Belle has lost her mind.

“It seems that I did.”  Belle grins, and Ruby’s tension lessens a fraction.  But when she goes on, Belle’s voice is serious. “Things are happening, Ruby.  Worrisome things. They were just telling me about them, and they need our help.  And from what it sounds like, we really should give it to them.”

Ruby turns towards Killian.  Her voice is pure steel. “You vouch for this Hunter?”  Then her eyes narrow as she takes a good look at him. “You look like shit, by the way.”

The corner of Killian’s mouth ticks up.  “Why thank you, love. Nothing a man enjoys hearing more than that.”  When he goes on, his voice is somber and incredibly sincere. “I do vouch for Emma.  I trust her with my life.”

Emma can’t breathe.  While Killian simply squeezes her shoulder and then leans back, as if he hadn’t just said the most extraordinary thing she’s ever heard in her life.

“Fine,” Ruby says, and then several things happen at once.

  
  


Emma’s phone beeps, just as the library doors are flung open again, hurried steps run towards them, and Snow rounds the corner, almost out of breath.

“Emma,” she wheezes, “I have a----”  And then she sees Ruby.

Time stops.

Snow’s entire body goes rigid, and Emma can see her fighting her instincts for a moment, before they take over and she drops into a fighting stance.  From the way she is focused on nothing but Ruby, ignoring the vampire in the room completely, it’s a fair guess that Shapeshifters are Snow's Primary. Her instincts came on with a _vengeance_.  Her hand flies to the knife at her side and wraps firmly around the hilt.

“Snow,” Emma says, her voice hard and commanding.  “Snow!”

Snow doesn’t bat an eyelash.  Emma might as well not be in the room.

And then Ruby _growls_.

Low and menacing and feral.  It is not a sound a human should make.  Not a sound a human _could_ make.

“Ruby.”  Belle’s voice is soft, and it cuts through the tension better than Emma’s, but to no avail.  Ruby’s growl intensifies, grows in both volume and menace, and Emma can feel Killian behind her tense up.  Getting ready to spring. She puts a firm hand on his knee and throws him a look that says, _if you even try to get up, I will push you back down so hard you become part of the sofa._

  
  


And then Snow pulls her knife from its sheath.

Ruby’s eyes turn yellow.  The growl is deafening now.  And in one smooth movement Ruby goes down on all fours and shifts into a wolf; a massive, snarling animal, easily twice the size of a normal wolf.

Snow’s hand comes up, the knife drawing a wide arc through the air---

and the wolf’s ears flatten against its head as it crouches before the leap---

and Emma gets her feet under her, barely in time---

and Belle yells “Ruby!” and jumps up from her chair---

and Killian shifts behind Emma so she loses precious seconds reaching behind her and pushing him back---

  
  


And then Belle lifts her hand, and a shower of sparks shoots from her fingertips.

They descend lightly on Snow’s head and shoulders - blinking lazily and then winking out of existence.

Snow’s hand releases the knife and it clatters to the floor. Her stance relaxes all at once, and she blinks several times, as if orienting herself in new surroundings.

The wolf is still snarling, but it’s not nearly as loud.  Belle puts her hand on its head and quietly says, “Ruby. Come back.”

And the wolf rears up and changes back to the woman.  Fully clothed.

  
  


All Emma can ask is, “How on earth did you do that?”

Ruby looks at her.  “Did no one tell you I was a shapeshifter?”

Emma shakes her head.  “Not _that_.  How are you not naked right now?”

Ruby laughs out loud, and the tension in the air dissipates.  Even Snow’s mouth quirks up, and Ruby turns fond eyes to Belle.  “It’s a handy little spell my love conjured up for me. Made my life a hell of a lot easier.”  She gives the grinning librarian a kiss that borders on indecent.

  
  


Emma looks at Killian.  “She has magic.” His eyes are soft, and his smile is warm.  “She has _magic_.  Did you know?”  He nods.

“Books aren’t the only reason we’re here, are they.”  She says it without rancor. She cannot bring herself to be mad at this.

He nods again.  “I hope you don’t mind.  But I thought it might help.”

Before Emma can answer, Snow clears her throat and looks at Belle, a tight, angry slant to her mouth.  “Does this mean you just put a hex on me?”

“No,” Belle sighs.  “I’m not nearly that skilled.  I only know a few small spells, and one of them takes the edge off of Hunter instincts.”

“Wait,” Emma says.  “When you shook my hand, it tingled.  Is that what that was?”

Belle nods.  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to have to spend all your energy fighting yourself, when we had more important things to talk about.”

  
  


Emma smiles, but before she can say anything else, Snow cuts in.  “While I’m not OK with you messing with my instincts _at all_ ,” she says, pointedly looking at Belle, “we do have more important things to talk about.”  She turns to Emma. “Tell me what happened with that Orthrus again?”

Emma can feel Killian’s hand drop to her shoulder once more.  His thumb moves in slow circles across the blade.

She sighs and meets Snow’s gaze head-on.  “I did some damage, but I didn’t kill it. I nearly took off one of its heads, severed the jugular all the way back to the spine.  Lamed a front leg. And I’m sure I tore up at least one flank.”

Snow looks puzzled.  “And with all that you still didn’t finish it off?”

Emma squirms.  This is not one of her shining moments.  “It got a few good swipes in - one of them across my face.”

Killian’s hand on her shoulder tightens.

“Made me dizzy for a few moments, cut me across the forehead.  I wasted some time getting blood out of my eyes, because the cut was bleeding kind of hard, and it was difficult to see.”

Killian’s grip is almost painful now, and Emma puts her hand on his, squeezes until Killian’s fingers relax a little.

“The Orthrus made a break for it while I was trying to get my bearings again.  Disappeared into the woods. It was too dark to track it.”

Snow nods, but her face is serious.  “Whispers down the Network say it’s back.”  She holds up her phone. “I just got an alert for a small town, not thirty miles from here.  And I think you and I should go and take care of it. Once and for all.”

  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL for sticking with me on this. i really hope it's worth it.  
> i love you ALL. So much.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

“I know you have to go, love.”  Killian’s voice is low.  And strained.  “But I don’t want you to.”

 

They’re back in his apartment, just the two of them.

They left Belle and Ruby at the library, sifting through books; and Snow in the parking lot, prepping the arsenal of lethal instruments in the trunk of her car.  Killian is lying down on the couch this time, looking winded and exhausted and watching Emma pack her weapons bag with half-closed eyes.

She walks over to him and kneels by his side.

“You know we can’t let that thing roam around free,” she says quietly.  This is not a time for loud voices.  “We have to do this, and we have to do it now.  I don’t know if it regenerates.  I know I took a chunk out of it, but it might already be back to true form.”

“And now I feel worse.”  God, he looks tired.

Emma smiles.  “We’ll be fine, don’t worry.  There are two of us now.”

“I know,” he sighs.  “And I know you can handle yourselves.  I just----”

His voice cuts out, and his eyes open wide.  And then they flash red.

Emma flinches, but has herself back under control within seconds.  Either Belle’s spell is still working, or she is getting used to these flashes.  She hopes it’s the latter.  She doesn’t want to recoil every time this happens.  His eyes have not changed back, and Emma takes a deep breath.

“Killian,” she says softly.  Just his name.  He swallows hard, but nothing else comes.

She takes his hand, pulls it up to her heart.  So he can feel it beating.  “Killian.”

 

He exhales and his eyes blink back to blue.  “Sorry,” he mumbles.  “I just---  I wish you didn’t have to do this now.  Not when you’re still hurt from your last battle.”

Emma opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand.  “You know I’m right.  And I’m allowed to worry.”  He folds his fingers through hers.  When he goes on, it’s almost a whisper.  “I wish for you to never walk through my door covered in blood ever again.  And I wish I could come with you.  I’d feel a lot better if I was there.  Maybe---”  He makes a motion to sit up and Emma pushes him back onto the pillows with some force.

“Don’t even think about it.”  Her voice is firm.  “Don’t even think about _thinking_ about it.  You are staying here and you are going to get busy healing and that is _all_ you are going to do.  Is that understood?”

Killian barks out a laugh, and Emma grins.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, in the most atrocious approximation of an American accent she has ever heard.  

 

Then he pulls her hand to his own heart, and the look he gives her takes her breath away.  Again.

Somewhere far, far away a part of her wonders what on earth it is he keeps doing to her.  She’s not used to being the focus of such sincere attention.

“Be careful.”  His voice is a whisper now, urgent and insistent and more forceful than a shout.  “Please, Emma.  Be careful.  Come back in one piece.”

His eyes are burning into hers.  
And all Emma can do is nod.

  
  
  


 

 

 

“So who do you work for,” Snow asks, after they’ve been driving in silence for nearly twenty minutes.  “You on the Network?”

“Yes,” Emma answers, her voice tight.  She doesn’t like to talk before a Hunt.  She prefers to concentrate.  “Network mostly.  Some private clients.  People who get my number from other people I’ve helped.”

Snow nods.  “Yeah.  Same here.”

Then she goes silent again.  It seems she likes to mentally prepare for a Hunt as well.  Emma is grateful for it.

The locator on Snow’s phone starts to beep in earnest.  “We’re getting close,” she says, her voice terse now, and quiet.  “I set it to where the Orthrus was last sighted.  We’ll have to track it from there.”

“In the pitch dark?”

“I _could_ track it, even in this darkness,” Snow says, and the implication is clear: She’s a much better tracker than Emma.  “But I don’t think we’ll have to.  The last sighting was a warehouse.  There’s a good chance it’s still there.  Especially if you did as much damage as you say you did.”

There is no implication this time.  Snow is merely stating a fact.  So Emma nods, and replies calmly, “I did.”

“Good.  We’re here.  Let’s get to work.”

 

The warehouse is sprawling and unnaturally quiet.  There are small windows all along the very tops of the walls, but they let in very little light.  Emma spends nearly a full minute looking for a light switch, and when she flips it, they both blink against bright neon for a moment.

Stacks of broken crates and torn tarpaulins and debris litter the floor.  Strangely enough the floor itself doesn’t seem to be concrete, but actual stone - worn almost smooth by countless feet and scissor lift tires.  The wall at the opposite end is so far back, they have trouble making it out.  Everything is coated in dust and mold.  It smells dank and musty.

They make their way down what used to be the center aisle, and suddenly there’s a faint tang of iron in the air.

 _Blood_.

Emma’s senses light up like flares in a night sky, and she has to take a few breaths to center herself.  Her instincts are _screaming_.  Next to her, Snow squares her shoulders and lifts her head.

They don’t talk, just nod at each other and split up, each making their way down one side of the building.

 

Emma’s katana is out, her grip light, almost relaxed around the hilt.  It was one of the first lessons she learned: Not to expend unneeded energy during a Hunt, not to let herself cramp up.  She’d nearly paid for that lesson with her life.  And has not made that mistake again since.

She takes her time, cautious and silent, her breathing controlled, all her senses on alert.

 

And then she rounds a corner.  And nearly walks into the beast.

 

The Orthrus is bigger than she remembers, crouched not five feet away from where she is standing.  One of its heads is missing, the severed end of the neck crusted with dried blood.  Its front right leg is pulled up to its chest, clearly hobbled, and there is scarring all down its right flank.  But it is no less intimidating than when Emma first faced it.  It stands solidly, even on three legs, and the remaining head bares a lethal set of giant fangs as a low, rumbling growl starts from deep in its chest.

 

Emma grips the katana tightly in both hands and yells, “Snow!”, just as the Orthrus crouches to spring.

Its hind legs push off with a powerful kick and Emma hurls herself forward, like a swimmer off a starting block, stretching out as she lands on her belly and slides across the floor as the beast soars right over her.

“SNOW!”

Emma scrambles to turn back towards the snarling hound, who skids across the floor, claws clacking loudly, looking for purchase.  It comes around to face Emma with a menacing growl, flews raised to expose canines bigger than her thumbs.  She gets up, but stays half-crouched, her knees bent slightly, her feet at shoulder-width.  Ready to move in any direction.

The beast raises its head, gives a terrifying howl, and from somewhere behind her Emma hears the word “DOWN!”

She drops to her knees just as she hears the familiar whiz of a loosened bolt above her head, followed by the smacking sound of it burying itself deep into flesh.  She looks up to see two more bolts sink into the Orthrus’ chest.  The impact sends it skittering back a good twenty feet.

“Reload!” comes Snow’s clipped command from behind her, and Emma jumps to her feet.  She looks back at Snow, pulling bolts from her belt, looks at the creature, howling in pain and rearing before her, and her brain flips a switch.

 

She screams and it sounds like a battle cry; and then she lifts her katana, sprints at the Orthrus and drops down to her knees right before she reaches it.  The impetus keeps her sliding forward at speed, blade raised up high, and she catches the underside of the beast’s neck right as it comes back down.

The katana slices through the Orthrus’ jugular like warm butter, catches briefly on the spine and then severs it neatly as the beast’s weight buckles its one working foreleg and bears down on the blade.

 

A fountain of blood erupts above Emma, drenching her in seconds, before the creature collapses on top of her.

Emma can’t breathe.  She is stuck under a mountain of muscle and fur.  She tries to push her hands up, lift the body enough to slide out from underneath it, but her hands are still wrapped around the hilt of her katana, pressing down on her windpipe, and she has no leverage at all.  Small, bright spots erupt behind her closed eyes.

 

And then she feels a hand wrap around the base of her ponytail and _pull_.

A few seconds later Emma’s head comes free and she can breathe again.  As soon as her shoulders are visible, two hands slide beneath her arms and yank her all the way out.

She drops her katana and uses her sleeve to wipe blood and fur and sweat from her eyes for a few long moments before daring to open them. 

 

Snow stands above her, grinning like a schoolgirl.  

“Well that was easy.”  She offers Emma a hand up.  “Nice work.”

Emma won’t admit it, even to herself, not in a million years, but Snow’s praise feels good.  Damn good.

“Although it was a little anticlimactic,” Snow goes on, still grinning.  “I was all geared up for a knock-down drag-out.”

Emma rolls her eyes.  “Easy for you to say.  You’re not covered in blood.”

“Speaking of which, I got some wet wipes in the car.  You can clean yourself up a little.  So Killian doesn’t have a heart attack when he sees you.”  Her grin turns wicked.  “That boy likes you, you know.”

Emma’s jaw clenches.  This is dangerous territory.  “You’re one to talk,” she snaps, followed by a very pointed look.

And for the first time since Emma met her, she sees Snow blush.

 

 

Emma tries, but the Orthrus’ blood is thick and sticky, and dry by the time they get back to Snow’s car.  She doesn’t get nearly enough off her face and arms; and her clothes and her hair are soaked and stiff.  For a moment she clings to the forlorn hope that Killian will be asleep when she gets back, so she can sneak past him and take a shower.

 

He’s not.

He’s sitting up on the couch, very much awake.

His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at her.

 

“Killian.”  She smiles at him, tries to make it reassuring.  “It’s not mine.”

He nods, but it doesn’t seem to register.  He hasn’t blinked since she entered the room.

“Killian,” she tries again, crouching down by the sofa, careful not to soil the cushions.  “Killian, listen to me.”  She takes his hand.  “It’s not my blood.  I’m fine.”

 

After an eternity he squeezes her fingers and his face relaxes.  “Sorry,” he mumbles.  “But you look like you walked straight out of one of my nightmares.”  His hand in hers holds on for dear life.

Emma shakes her head and forces herself to not examine this comment too closely.  Her emotions are muddled enough as it is, and she doesn’t like feeling muddled, doesn’t like it at all.

Her chest feels tight.

She can’t breathe properly.

She can feel the look he gives her down to the marrow of her bones.

And then tears spring to her eyes for no reason at all, and she pulls her hand sharply out of his grasp.

 

She gets up abruptly.  “I’m going to shower and change and burn these clothes.”

“Emma,” he says.  His voice is soft.

“And then I’ll make us some food, because I’m fucking starving.”

“Emma,” he says again, and she shakes her head.  

She can’t look at him.  “Are you hungry?  Have you eaten?”

His hand wraps around her wrist and tugs at it.

“Love,” he says, his voice so fucking gentle.  “It’s OK.  Look at me.”

She can’t.  She _can’t_.

He sighs.  Rubs his thumb across her pulse point.  “It’s all right.”  And then in a voice so low, she can barely hear it, he adds, “I’m scared, too.”

  


 

 

An hour later Emma is showered and changed and cross-legged on the floor across from the couch, finishing off her second bowl of mac ’n cheese.  Killian is still on the sofa, poking around in his own bowl, eating slowly and in very small bites. They’re both quiet.

 

“Emma,” Killian finally breaks the silence.  “Emma, I---” He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath.  His right hand comes up to scratch behind his ear. She still can’t quite look at him, stares at a point behind his right shoulder instead.

He tries again.  “I just--- I wanted to tell you---”  Whatever it is he is trying to say, it’s not coming.  The skin behind his ear must be raw by now. Emma finally gets the nerve to look up.  He’s staring at his feet as if they were the most fascinating sight in all of creation.

He opens his mouth twice, but nothing comes out.  Then he shrugs, and god - it looks _helpless_.

 

He shakes his head slowly, and finally speaks.  “Can you tell me how you became a Hunter?”

“Why?”  Emma is certain that this is not what he was trying to say at all.  This is not what made him so tongue-tied. When he looks at her, his eyes are large.  And somber. And-- there’s something else in them, something Emma can’t place, but it looks like defeat.  Mixed with longing.

His voice is low, and very, very gentle.  “I just--- I’d like to know where you come from.  How you got here.”

 

Emma can’t bring herself to answer.  She lets her eyes wander the room without actually looking at anything.  Least of all him.

“Please talk to me.”  It’s a sad little whisper, and Emma sighs.  Her defenses are no match for his sincerity.

 

With a groan she stretches her aching, sore muscles and gets up to go and sit down next to him.  It feels good to sink into sofa cushions, it feels good to lean against a back rest and relax, it feels good to have his warm body next to her.  It feels good when he takes her hand and laces his fingers through hers.

 

She looks at his face, open and honest, a small, wistful smile playing around the corners of his mouth.  “Why did you become a Hunter?”

He sighs.  Looks down at their joined hands, squeezes her fingers.  When he starts to talk his voice is low.  And like he’s far, far away.

“My brother was a Hunter.  He was the favorite son - honorable and decent and fighting the good fight every day.  All I ever loved was the ocean.  All I ever wanted was to set sail on a very big ship.  So I joined a freight company, spent my days crossing the seven seas, bringing back exotic goods for the citizens back home.”

 

His voice changes.  It sounds like he’s reporting to her instead of telling her a story.  Like what he is saying happened to someone else.

“I went back to our hometown on shore leave several years later.  I hadn’t seen Liam in ages, wanted to spend some time with him.  But when I got there he was in the middle of Hunting a particularly vicious nest of vampires.  They had been terrorizing several villages for months.  I offered him my help.  He refused.  Said I wasn’t trained.  Said it would be too hard for him to fight and watch out for me at the same time.  So he went alone.”

 

He looks like he’s not even in the room.  When Emma tightens her grip on his hand, he doesn’t respond.

“He never came back.  I waited - that whole night and the next day, I waited.  And then I went to look for him.”

His voice becomes terribly neutral.  There is no inflection in it at all now.

“I found him in their abandoned nest.  He had bite marks everywhere.  His throat was torn open.  It looked like they had all feasted on him.  Together.”

 

His voice catches.  But it remains devoid of emotion.  “I buried him behind that house.  I couldn’t leave him there.  But I also couldn’t take him back with me.  I didn’t want anyone to see him like that.  I buried him, and then I sat by his grave for hours, and then I left.  And I never went back to the ocean.”

 

He’s silent for a long time, and all Emma can hear is his heart breaking.  She doesn’t speak, because there are no words.  She just holds his hand.

 

“After I was cursed, I decided to flee the country.  Go to America.  Try to start a new life.  The night my ship was supposed to leave, I came upon a vampire at the docks.  He was feeding on a little girl -- she couldn’t have been more than 10 years old.  She was crying.  And so I ripped the vampire off of her, and---- it was Liam.  I didn’t recognize him at first.  I only realized it after he called me ‘little brother’.  It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.  Those words, in that voice.”

 

He finally looks up, and there are tears in his eyes.  But they don’t fall, just make his eyes unnaturally bright and shiny.

“I couldn’t fight him.  I just stood there like a bloody statue.  But he could, oh-- he could.  He did not kill me-- it was never his intent to kill me, I don’t think.  But he gave me this.”

And he holds up his mangled left hand.

“So now I have to think about him every time I use it.  Think about him and how I failed us both.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and blinks his eyes dry.  And then he smiles, and it’s the saddest thing Emma has ever seen.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes.  “So now you know.”

 

If she were given a thousand years to think about it, Emma still wouldn’t know what to say to him.  His story is so harrowing, so utterly heartbreaking, she feels like pieces of her soul have been torn out of her and ripped to shreds.  She can’t imagine how broken his must be.

There is only one thing she can do, only one thing she can possibly give him.  She takes a deep breath and decides to let go.

 

“It all started in an abandoned office building.  Where I met my first vampire when I was 16.”

She is silent for a long moment and he opens his eyes.  Looks at her, but doesn’t speak, merely waits for her to go on.  She focuses on a piece of chipped paint on the window frame across from her and starts her story.

 

“I was squatting in the building.  I grew up in the system, and I’d tried to run away from nearly every group home I was put into.  But that was the first time I actually succeeded.”

She takes a deep breath.  She has never told anyone _any_ of this.

“I spent a few days on the streets, and one horrible night at a homeless shelter.  And then I found that office building, and it was marked for demolition, and I thought I’d hit the jackpot.  It was a small building, not one of those highrises, and it wasn’t hard to break into.  It was reasonably warm, and reasonably clean, and they’d shut off the power, but not the water.  It was cold, but it was running.  I was in heaven.”

 

His fingers wrap more tightly around hers, but other than that, he doesn’t move.

 

“I had myself all set up in one of the offices, underneath one of those enormous desks.  It almost felt like a bunk, safe and private.  Even though I was the only one in the building.”

Another deep breath.  “And on my fourth night there I heard a noise.  It was a strange sound, and I couldn’t place it for the longest time.  It wasn’t someone sneaking around.  It certainly wasn’t someone official, searching the rooms.  It was neither a thief, nor a squatter, nor the cops, I was sure of that.  It was more like a shuffling.  And a really odd moaning.  Anyway, I was scared out of my wits.”

 

He squeezes her fingers again, warm and sure.

 

“I tried to stay put, hidden under my desk, but I couldn’t.  Something inside me was screaming for me to get up and investigate.  I couldn’t resist it.  It’s like it was pulling me out, forcing me towards that noise.  I was terrified, but I had to go.”

 

She shakes her head slowly, keeps staring at the paint chip.  Not seeing it.  “I came upon this creature in the hallway, crawling along the walls, clothes covered in dirt.  Moaning.  I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a vampire that had just risen, looking for his first meal.  I have since learned that that is the worst period of time for vampires.  When they’ve just been made; and they can’t quite orient themselves in this new world, with all these new senses and a ravenous hunger they can’t understand.  It’s also the easiest time to kill them.”

She shrugs.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to be so callous.”

 

His thumb rubs gently across the back of her hand, but he doesn’t say a word.  As if he knows she can’t stop now, not before she gets it all out.

 

“Anyway, it looked wretched.  Vampires can’t really adjust to their new selves until they feed for the first time, and this one had been looking to feed for a while.  I think that’s why it was crawling.  Weakness.

And then it noticed me.  It looked like a jolt went through it.  Its head came up with a snap, and its fangs lowered and I thought I would die of fear, right then and there.  You have to remember that until that moment I’d only heard about vampires in stories.  For me they were fiction.  Products of overactive imaginations.  To see one draw back its lips and reveal fucking _fangs_ was---- was---- ”

 

Her voice cuts out.  In her mind she is back in that moment.  Sees the pitiful creature before her look up and become something terrifying and ghastly and _impossible_.  In her worst nightmares she has never imagined anything as abominable as this.

She keeps concentrating on that corner of the window.  And on his thumb, drawing circles across her skin.

 

“It got up quicker than lightning and _charged_.  I put out my hands to ward it off and when I touched it this weird flash of light somehow shot out of my hand.  And the vamp turned to ash.  Before my eyes.  Nothing but ash.  And I thought I’d lost my mind.

So I ran.  Spent the whole night hiding under a freeway overpass.  Couldn’t stop shaking.  And the next day I went to the public library.”

 

She falls silent.

 

“Did you find what you were looking for there?”  It’s the first time he speaks, and it is a whisper.

Emma nods.  “Yeah.  I actually stayed at that library for a while.  It kept a basement window open.  That’s practically an invitation.  I found lots of books that were pretty helpful, and then I kind of became a Hunter by accident.”

 

She feels empty.  Empty and drained.

“Emma,” he says softly.  “Thank you for telling me your story, love.”

It’s so sincere, his “thank you”, his heartfelt attention.  It’s so honest.  Too honest.  He really wants to know her.  It’s making her skin itch and her blood curdle and her soul cry out for more.

 

And then he moves.

Lets go of her hand, turns towards her--- and wraps her up in his arms.

Hugs her tightly, so tightly; hugs her and hugs her and doesn’t let go.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh - this ride is going to be a little longer than i thought i really hope you're up for it!  
> :)


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

“I’m not going back to the library as long as that girl is there.”  Snow’s voice is firm.

 

It’s late.  
David is downstairs, tending bar.  
Snow and Emma are sitting with Killian in his living room, trying to make a plan.  Or at least a semblance of one.

 

“Shapeshifters really get to me, and I absolutely do not want to have my senses fucked with.  Least of all by a vampire.”

“Is it really that hard for you?”

Snow looks at Emma with a mixture of exasperation and disdain.  “You don’t get to ask me that when all you have to deal with is the full moon, dear.”

 

Killian’s eyebrows rise in question.  “How do you mean?”

Emma shrugs.  She’s tired of having to justify herself. “Having werewolves as a Primary is different from all others.  Vampires and shapeshifters and everybody else, well--  they are those things all the time.  So your senses go off whenever you encounter them.  Werewolves-- they’re human.  Completely human.  Nothing else.  Until they change.  So your instincts don’t really clock in until they do.  When you meet them as humans it’s more like an undercurrent - you feel _something_ , but it’s nowhere near what Snow got when she saw Ruby.  It gets more powerful the closer you get to a full moon, but it really doesn’t kick into high gear until one transforms right in front of you.”

Killian nods.  “So that’s why you were able to control yourself when you met David.  I thought it was the Chimera, and the painkillers, and the poison still leaving your body.  And the wards.”

 

Emma’s head snaps up.  “ _Wards?_   What wards?”

Killian looks almost guilty.  “I have wards all over the place.  Belle put them up.”

“Is _that_ why I didn’t go full Hunter all the times I came to drink?”  Emma looks around, searching for sigils.  There are none in his apartment, none that she can make out.  “I thought it was because I was tired.  And because the bar was nearly empty whenever I came in.”  She looks back at Killian.  “Apart from the fact that you tripped none of my senses.  At all.”

“Well, I _am_ a little unusual.”  Killian smiles, but it’s hesitant.  “And you were also injured each time, so - not exactly at your peak.  But you did make several people leave out the back in a hurry every time you stopped by.  I had to do a lot of explaining afterwards.”

He takes her hand, as if to tell her that he didn’t mind any of it.  “But to answer your question, yes - I think the wards had a lot to do with it.  I just--- I didn’t want my bar to light up the Hunting landscape like a Christmas tree.  That’s not the way to run a haven.  So I protected us against attracting attention as best I could.”

Emma smiles at him.  “It definitely worked.”  She thinks back to all the times she’d come in, bruised and bloody and exhausted.  And in the end -- dying.  Actually dying.  She squeezes his fingers.  “Lucky for me.”

 

Snow rolls her eyes.  “Great.  My senses are being curbed all over the place.  That’s not making me happy.”

Emma has to grin.  “I can think of one or two ways it’s lucky for you, too.”  She puts as much innuendo into her voice as she dares, and Snow snorts derisively.

But she also blushes.  It makes her look like a whole different person.

Emma turns back to Killian.  “What about you?  Did you have a Primary when you were a Hunter?”

He shakes his head.  “No.  In those days we hadn’t studied or refined Hunting that much.  We certainly hadn’t named anything.  And I was kind of a---- a separate entity.  I kept more or less to myself.”  He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he looks up, his eyes are sad.  “I did seem to Hunt vampires predominantly.  But I thought that was because----”

His voice cuts out, and Emma squeezes his hand again.  She knows what he means.  She certainly won’t make him say it out loud.

 

They fall silent, lost in their own thoughts.

 

Finally Snow clears her throat and says in a low voice, “I think it’s time we went to the Hub.”

Emma nods slowly.  “I was just thinking the same thing,”

Killian’s brow furrows.  “The Hub?”

“You’ve heard of the Network, right?”

He shrugs.  “Sort of.  From what I’ve heard, it’s an association of Hunters.”

Emma nods again.  “Close enough.  It’s more like a loose connection between all Hunters.  We get most of our jobs from the Hub.  When someone with a problem doesn’t contact us directly.”  She turns to Snow.  “I should go in the morning.  Might as well find out everything they know.”

 

Killian turns to her and says calmly, “I’ll come with you.”

Emma shakes her head no.  “Out of the question.  It’s a five-hour drive.  You could hardly handle the ride from here to the library.”

“I don’t care.  You’re not going alone.”  His voice is firm.

“Snow can come with me.”

Snow in turn shakes her head.  “Actually, she can’t.  First of all, someone has to stay behind and make sure the bar is protected.  Someone who’s capable.”  She is not boasting.  Yet again, she is merely stating a fact.  “Also, the Blacksmith gave me some leads, which I’d like to follow up.”  She holds up a hand before Emma can become indignant.  “Nothing concrete.  Just people I should go and talk to.”

Killian smiles.  “Then it’s settled.  You stay here and hold down the fort, and Emma and I will leave in the morning.”

 

Emma shudders.  “Killian.”  She has to make him understand.  “That’s a very, _very_ bad idea.  The long ride will make you worse.  And you’ll be entering Hunter Central.  Not a place you want to be.  Definitely not a place you want to be _injured_.”

His eyes are clear and determined and so very blue.  “I’m going.  And nothing you say will change my mind.”

Emma throws up her hands and turns to Snow.  “Can you please talk some sense into him?”

Snow merely raises an eyebrow.  “I think it’s a good idea, actually.  There’s nobody around who knows as much about this as he does.  I think he has to go.”

Emma sighs.  “God, of all the bad ideas we’ve had recently, this is the worst.”

 

 

 

 

“I think we should leave tonight.  Now.”

 

Snow has gone downstairs to Killian’s office, ostensibly because it houses the only computer in the building.  But they both know she’s having a drink or five with David while she helps him clean up.  
Emma is curled up in one corner of the couch, fighting to stay awake.  
It’s past 2AM.

 

“Not on your life, love.  I know you’re exhausted.”  He pats her knee.  “You’ve done actual battle today.  You can hardly keep your eyes open.”

“I can drive.”  Emma fights down a yawn.  “And I don’t want you to have to deal with five hours of sunlight on top of everything else.”  Killian starts to shake his head, and Emma raises an unimpressed eyebrow.  “I saw you wince earlier, just getting to and from the car.  And today was cloudy.”  Quietly she adds, “I know it doesn’t harm you, not really.  But I can see that it’s painful.”

Killian sighs.  “I’ll be fine.  We can put something over my side window, block out the direct sunlight.  If there is any, because I think it’s going to rain.”  He leans forward, puts his hand on her knee again, and leaves it there.  “But Emma, you have to sleep.  You have to.”

She wants to protest, but she gets blindsided by a yawn.  And another.  And another.  

She cannot stop yawning, and Killian grins.  “Off to bed with you, love.”

Emma finishes yet another yawn.  “Well, you’re sitting on it.”

Killian’s eyebrows draw together.  “Emma.”  It sounds like he’s explaining something complicated to a small child.  “You’re taking the bed.”  

He turns sideways, like he’s going to stretch out on the sofa and Emma simply grabs his wrist.

“There is no way you are sleeping on the couch, not when you’ve been holding your side for the last hour.”  She tugs at his arm.  “Do you hear me?  No way.”  She gets up and gently pulls him with her.  “Now stop being so goddamn chivalrous.  Your bed is big enough.  We can share.”

 

She doesn’t quite know what is making her so bold.  This is not at all how she usually acts.  She doesn’t share space.  She doesn’t invite people in, doesn’t tell them about herself, doesn’t open up.  She certainly doesn’t share beds for anything less than impending hypothermia.  It feels alien and daring, reckless almost.

But when she looks at his face, at the pure delight trying to break out from underneath the apprehension, she knows: This - this is the right thing to do.

 

She falls asleep curled around a pillow which smells like him, with his side pressed against her back.

 

 

 

 

It’s past noon by the time they finally leave for the Hub.

They are taking David’s truck, because it’s faster and more roadworthy than Emma’s car and she wants to spend as little time as possible on the road.  Before they get going she duct tapes a t-shirt to the passenger side window, in spite of the heavy cloud cover and the drizzling rain.

After just thirty minutes of watching Killian trying to get comfortable in his seat, of listening to him trying to swallow sounds of pain, she tells him to lie down.  It is a testament to how bad he must be feeling that he does so without protest.  The bench seat is much too short for him, so he ends up with his legs angled up and his head in her lap, but at least he’s no longer shifting.  Or wincing.

 

They don’t talk.  They talked enough the night before.

It’s as if they both know instinctively when to push and when to hold back, and it is this, this sign of intrinsic connection that thrills and terrifies Emma in equal measure.  So she chooses not to think about it.  They have enough on their plates as it is.

Killian lies there with his head on her right thigh and his eyes closed and one hand splayed across his side.  Sometime during the second hour his breathing turns slow and even.  He is asleep.

Emma keeps one hand on the wheel and lets the other drop to his shoulder.  And just keeps driving.

 

 

 

 

“Wake up.”  Emma gently rubs his arm, trying not to startle him into sudden movement.  “We’re almost there.”

 

Darkness is falling.  Killian blinks awake slowly, and she keeps rubbing his arm to reassure him in these strange surroundings.

He wipes his eyes and then struggles to sit up.  “How long have I been asleep?”

She smiles.  “Two hundred miles, give or take.  And it looks like it did you some good.”

Even in small light of dusk she can see that his cheeks have some color and his features are relaxed.  He looks almost happy.

“Had some nice dreams,” he mumbles and then runs both hands across his face.  “I haven’t slept this much in ages.”

Emma glances at him.  The purple shadows under his eyes that have been so prominent since the full moon are almost gone.  “You needed it.  I’m glad you got some rest.”

He just nods.  “How long till we get there?”

Emma focuses back on the road and points her chin to a dirt road forking off ahead, barely visible in the headlights.

“That’s the turnoff,” she says.  She can feel anxiety starting to churn in her gut.  “And you have to promise me something: Do not panic, no matter what happens.”  She pulls on to the dirt road and the truck starts to shake.  “I don’t know what kind of reception we’ll get.”  She puts her hand on his knee and squeezes it hard, before the uneven road forces her to put it back on the steering wheel.  “Please - promise me.  Whatever happens, stay calm.”

Out of the corner of her eye she can see him nod.  “I promise,” he says quietly.

 

Emma comes to a stop in front of a small church.  It is weathered and run-down - the paint chipped, the steeple sagging slightly to the left, the clock on it stopped and missing the minute hand.

She puts the car in park, cuts the engine and squares her shoulders.  “No sudden movements.”  She can hear that her voice is shot through with anxiety.  “We’re here.”

 

It happens the moment they exit the truck.

 

She can hear Killian give a yelp of pure pain just as she feels an arm wrap around her neck in an iron headlock.  The sheer force of it nearly lifts her off her feet and leaves her just enough air to breathe. Barely.

Something hard digs into her ribcage, something that feels like the barrel of a gun.  On the other side of the truck Killian’s cry cuts off suddenly and turns into a whimpering gurgle.

“Make one move and I will end you.”  A menacing voice whispers close to her ear.

Emma stops struggling immediately.  It takes her three tries to get her voice working enough to hiss, “Graham.  Graham, please.”

And she is released so abruptly she stumbles a few steps.

 

“Emma?”  The voice sounds shocked.  “Emma - what are you doing here with this--- this _thing_?”  The last word is spat out in pure disdain.

Emma turns around, tries to regain her breath.

The man before her looks both aghast and thoroughly displeased.  In his right hand is a Desert Eagle.  

 

She can make out Killian, also stuck in a headlock, but the arm holding him is a woman’s.  A woman whose other hand holds a Bowie knife to his throat.  Her grip is painfully tight, Killian is struggling hard just to breathe.  It’s too dark to see his eyes, but Emma knows they’re red.  His body is pulled backwards, his spine curving like a bow, and she can feel his fear and his agony all the way to her bones.

 

“Ashley,” she says, trying to make her voice as calm as possible.  “Let him go.”

The woman pulls Killian back even further and the blade of her knife draws the first drops of blood.  Killian’s hands start to tremble as his jaw goes slack.  He’s close to passing out.

Emma takes a step towards them, lowers her voice even further.  “Please Ashley.  He means you no harm.  And you’re hurting him.”

 

Her eyes bore into the woman’s.  Neither one of them blinks for a long time.  And then the woman finally, finally relaxes her grip.

 

Killian coughs and bends over double, wheezing.  Emma closes the distance between them and rubs his back as he tries to straighten up and fails.  His hands are shaking as he holds his middle tightly.

“You OK?”  She whispers as he swallows a groan and nods.

“Fine,” he grinds out from behind clenched teeth.  “Just give me.  A minute.”

 

Emma looks up and fixes each of them in turn with a hard glare.  “Thank you for the lovely welcome.   What the fuck is wrong with you?  I called ahead!  I told you I was coming!”

The man studies her with narrowed eyes.  “Forgive me, but what the hell were you thinking?  You come here in a car we don’t know, with a creature we don’t know.  You’re lucky we didn’t shoot you on sight.”

Emma shakes her head.  “You never used to be this trigger happy.  What the hell has made you both so shoot-first-ask-questions-later?”

 

The woman speaks for the first time, her voice calm and controlled.  “These are desperate times,” she says, and then nods at them both.  “We didn’t know it was you.  I’ve never seen this truck, and this one--” she points her chin at Killian, “tripped my senses the moment you turned down the driveway.”

Killian’s wheezing becomes less pronounced.  His breathing evens out and he manages to straighten up part of the way.  Emma keeps rubbing his back, because it seems to be helping.  But she does not take her eyes off the people before her.

There are a million rebukes on the tip of her tongue, but what comes out is, “He tripped your _senses_?”

The woman nods.  “Like a five alarm fire.”

She must notice the confusion on Emma’s face, because she opens her mouth to go on, but the man cuts her off.  “Let’s go inside,” he says with firm authority.  “I have a feeling that there are lots of explanations to be made, and the last place I want to linger is out here.”

 

 

 

 

“Killian, these are Graham and Ashley.  Otherwise known as the Hub.”

 

Emma and Killian are sitting next to each other on a small couch in a cramped server room in the church’s basement.  Killian is wiping his neck with a tissue, but the small cut has already stopped bleeding.

The man named Graham is sitting at a desk sporting no less than four monitors, and his eyes flick constantly between the pair on the couch and his computer screens.  Ashley is sprawled in an easy chair between them, one leg dangling across the chair arm, looking deliberately relaxed.  Emma knows better.  There’s not a muscle or sinew in Ashley’s body that isn’t ready to flex into movement at the slightest provocation.

 

Emma can feel pain and confusion radiating off Killian.  His eyes are still red, so she takes his hand and laces her fingers through his.  She feels his tension lessen a fraction.

“Breathe,” she whispers.  “You’re safe now.  No one’s going to hurt you.”

Graham looks like he wants to argue, and she glares daggers at him until he backs down.

Killian leans towards her, buries his face in her neck and inhales deeply, several times.  His lips brush her skin when he pulls back, and his eyes are blue when he looks at her.

“OK?”

He nods.

 

Emma turns back to their hosts.  “Graham, Ashley, this is Killian.  And he is not ’a thing’.  You refer to him as a _creature_ or attack him without cause again, I’m going to forget we’re friends.  Is that clear?”

Ashley’s eyes narrow, but in the end she slowly nods.  “I guess that’s fair.  You have earned the benefit of our doubt.”

Emma smiles darkly.  “How kind of you,” she mutters.

Ashley looks at Killian.  “Especially since I can’t pinpoint you at all.  I have no idea what you are, other than the fact that you’re making my senses go haywire.”

 

Emma squeezes Killian’s hand.  “Killian is different from anyone you’ve ever encountered, that I promise you,” she says.  “And he’ll tell you his story, all of it.”  She looks at Killian, and he nods again.

Emma breathes a sigh of relief.  They had not talked about this beforehand, she never got his permission to share his story, and she mentally kicks herself for forgetting to tell him this would likely be the price of admission.  He smiles at her briefly, as if to let her know he doesn’t mind, expected it even, and squeezes her hand back.

Emma clears the lump in her throat.  “Killian’s story is going to take some time,” she says, looking from Ashley to Graham.  “I think maybe you should introduce yourselves first?”

Ashley’s smile is a touch too condescending.  Like she presumes to know the game Emma is playing.

 

Back when Emma encountered her first fellow Hunters, she was surprised at all the unwritten rules.  The most important one being the pride of place of The Last Introduction.  It was all about forcing the people around you to give up their information before you had to explain yourself.  Emma is pragmatic, and she never had any time for these types of games.  She is all about efficiency and logic.  She has no patience for misplaced pride.  Today is no different.

 

So she rolls her eyes and sighs.  “Fine.  I’ll do it.”  She turns to Killian.  “Graham is a former priest, and we are in what used to be his church.”

“Technically it is still my church.”  It’s the first time Graham has spoken since they came inside, and he summarily ignores Ashley’s annoyed look at his disregard of Hunter etiquette.  Instead he grins at both Emma and Killian.  “Seeing as I actually own the building.  Such as it is.”

Emma smiles in return, glad he decided not to give her a hard time.  “Point taken,” she says.  “Graham made the fatal mistake of falling in love and getting married, which got him excommunicated and, well--- shunned by his former congregation.”

Graham nods, still smiling.  “Nothing like an act of love to piss off the righteous,” he says.  “Turns out love brings out the worst in people whose lives have very little of it in them.”

Then he points to Ashley, whose lips have compressed into a fine line.  “This is the love of my life and the bane of my existence.  My soulmate and the best vampire Hunter on the Eastern seaboard.  Probably the country.  Also known as my wife, Ashley.”

 

At that Ashley’s face suddenly relaxes into a fond smile.

“You definitely know how to sweet-talk a girl,” she mutters.  Then she looks up, and the tension leaves her body.  “It’s true.  We fell in love and Graham gave up everything for me.”  Her hand draws a wide arc in the air, encompassing the whole room.  “This is the result of his fall from grace.”

She smiles again, proudly.  “A Hunter’s Network, built from the ground up, and all information feeding into and being distributed back out of this room.”  She points at Graham, still with that proud smile on her face.   “He did it all himself, the Network, the servers, everything.”

Graham looks back at his wife.  “All for you.”

Ashley rolls her eyes.  This seems part of a well-worn conversation.  But there is love in her expression, love and genuine affection, and Emma is reminded once again that here are two people who have truly found each other.

 

Then Ashley looks at Killian.  “Who and whatever you are, you’re very brave for letting Emma talk you into coming here.”

“I volunteered,” Killian replies, and Ashley’s eyebrows shoot up.  “I have information that might prove useful.”  He squeezes Emma’s hand.  “And I didn’t want Emma to come here alone.”

Ashley’s eyes narrow again, and she studies him closely.  “I was going to say brave or stupid, but I can see you’re not stupid.  I can also see----”  She cuts herself off mid-sentence and doesn’t go on.

 

After a few moments Killian grins.  “Plus, I’m not a vampire, so I do have that going for me.  I take it that is your specialty?”

Ashley nods, but it is Graham who answers.  He sounds no less proud of his wife than she did of him when she described the Hub.  “That is her Primary, but she is so much more than a bundle of senses and instincts.”  He gets up from behind his desk, walks over to Ashley and squeezes himself behind her on the overstuffed chair.  Puts his arm around her and kisses her softly on the cheek.  Something inside Emma bends at the sight of it, something that was never meant to bend at all.  It causes a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

“There are all kinds of Hunters, some more attuned - or more susceptible - to their senses than others,” Graham goes on, his fingers softly tracing the shell of his wife’s ear.  She gives him a small, almost embarrassed smile.  “And then there is Ashley.  Who made tuning her senses into an art form.  She could pinpoint vamps a mile out.  Predict their actions, interpret their patterns, anticipate their attacks.  She had a hundred percent success rate.  They used to call her Cinderella.”

Killian’s head snaps up and he stares.

But so does Emma.  She has known Ashley a while, and yet never heard that name.  “Why Cinderella?”

Ashley shakes her head with a self-deprecating smile.  “I think it started as a joke, because my name is Ashley.  And because I never met a vamp I didn’t turn into ash.  And you know, Ashley - ash - cinders -  Cinderella… it wasn’t too far of a stretch.  And then it sort of stuck.”

 

“I never knew they called you Cind---”

“ _You’re_ Cinderella?”  Killian cuts Emma off mid-sentence.  “I thought you were an urban legend!  Half the wards at my bar are specifically designed to keep you away.”

Emma looks at him, dumbfounded.

“Belle put them up,” he reminds her.  “She had stories about this fabled vampire Hunter.  I thought they couldn’t possibly be true.”  He turns back to Ashley.  “She made you sound like the bogeyman.”

 

Ashley’s eyes turn pensive as she once again studies Killian closely.

“You’re the bartender,” she finally says, quietly.  “I spent years looking for your place, but I could never find even the slightest hint of you.  Not one trace.  So I decided you were a myth as well.”  She smiles, but it is without rancor.  “I guess now I know why.”

 

Graham clears his throat and looks at Killian.  “I think it’s time you tell us who you are.  You, specifically.  Since I’ve never known Ashley to be stumped by anything supernatural.”  He nods at both.  “And then I’m dying to know what the fuck you’re both doing here.”

 

 

 

 

An hour later Killian and Emma have both run through their stories, and silence fills the room.  Emma’s throat feels raw from talking so much.  Killian’s hand is holding hers tightly, the only indicator of the strain he is under.  They have moved closer together on the couch, the length of her body pressed against his.  He’s leaning into her now that they’re done, like he needs the comfort of her presence.  Like he needs _her_.  Emma gets the strangest urge to wrap him up in her arms, tell him everything will be all right.  She squeezes his hand instead.

 

Neither Graham nor Ashley have moved the entire time it took to listen to everything.  The silence stretches, wraps each of them up in their own thoughts.

 

Finally Ashley looks at her husband.  “A Chimera,” she says, her voice low.  “An Orthrus.  Moroís, kishis, possibly a Wild Hunt?  A fucking _demon_?  Is that even possible?”

“I think we’re way past what’s possible and what isn’t.”  Graham tightens his arms around her middle.  “But I believe Emma.  She has never lied to us.  She has no reason to lie to us.  And like it or not, it fits the picture everybody else has been painting.”

He turns to Emma and Killian.  “I’ve been getting the strangest sightings, and most of them concentrated in one area.  I’m assuming it’s the area where your bar is located.  I didn’t take the reports seriously at first, that’s why I only sent one Hunter out there.”  He sighs.  “Emma, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know when I gave you the jobs.  I mean, an Orthrus?  A Chimera?  I thought it couldn’t possibly be real.  I never would have sent you otherwise.”

Emma bristles.  “You didn’t _send_ me anywhere, dickhead.  I asked for the jobs.  And I went.  That’s how it works.”

Ashley grins.  “Don’t you just love it when he gets all overprotective?  You should have seen him on my last few Hunts.  I practically had to sneak out from under him every time.”  She kisses Graham on the cheek.  “And he nearly had a meltdown every time I came back.”  She kisses him again, on the lips this time, and the kiss goes on for an uncomfortably long time.  Emma has to look away.  Finally Ashley pulls back and whispers, “You know I love you, right?”

Graham shakes his head.  “One day you’ll be the death of me, woman.”

 

He looks up at Emma and Killian very much _not_ looking at them, and blushes.  “Sorry.  Where were we?”

Emma rolls her eyes.  “You were in the middle of not sending me places.  I was in the middle of choosing to go where the jobs were.”

“I get it, I’m sorry.”  Graham grins, but it falls quickly.  “When you went after the Chimera and I didn’t hear back from you, and I got kind of worried.”

Ashley’s eyebrows rise nearly to her hairline.  “Kind of worried?  He nearly wore a hole in the floor pacing.  I was about to go after you when the Orthrus popped back up on the grid.  The Orthrus you went after before the Chimera.  The Orthrus that was also supposed to be a myth.”

Graham nods.  “And then I feared the worst.  And I also didn’t know what to believe anymore.  I put out an open call for it, and Snow answered.  She said was going after it with a Hunter named Emma, so I knew you were OK -- but then I realized you were going after a real Orthrus, so I got all worried again.  I can’t tell you how glad I was when you finally checked in earlier today and told me you were coming.”

Emma laughs.  “Yeah.  I noticed.  If the reception we got was you being glad, remind me never to piss you off.”

Graham holds up both hands.  “I’m sorry.  We may have overreacted.  Slightly.”

 

Ashley gets up and walks over to Killian.  “Let me take a look at that,” she says softly, pointing to the hand lying on his abdomen.  “You say you were hit by a crossbow bolt?  I might be able to help.”

Killian tenses up immediately.  

Ashley doesn’t seem to notice.  “If you’ll come with me to the infirmary?”

Killian looks apprehensive and Emma turns to face him.  “I think you can trust her not to hurt you.”

His eyes are large and as fearful as she has ever seen them without flashing red.  He ignores Ashley completely as he asks, “Will you come with me?”

Emma gets the urge to hug him again.  She nods instead.  “Of course.  If you want me to.”

He exhales a long breath.  “I want you to.”

  
  


Ashley leads them to what looks like a doctor’s office.  Emma has never seen this part of the basement.  The room has an examination table, and surgical lamps, and lots of medical equipment, most of which she can’t identify.  Killian’s hand is still holding hers tightly.

Ashley motions for him to lie down on the table, and he does.  But he doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand.

Then Ashley opens his shirt and removes the bandages and Emma draws a sharp breath.  The wound looks red and raw and incredibly painful.  And so much worse than it did just that morning.  She can’t believe he’s not screaming in pain.

 

“I thought it might be this bad,” Ashley says calmly, and turns towards the cupboards lining the wall.  “I could feel the pain rolling off you in waves.”

It makes Emma irrationally furious, the fact that Ashley could sense Killian’s pain when she couldn’t.  She has to fight hard to keep her face neutral, to keep Killian from seeing rage in her eyes.  When Ashley turns back to them, holding a phial and a syringe, she stops short when she sees Emma.

“It’s all part of my senses,” she says, and it sounds like an apology.  “It was beneficial for my Hunting to sense creatures in pain.”  She pats Killian’s arm.  “I’m not calling you a creature.  And I’m truly sorry for what happened to you.  I forgot to say that before.  I can’t think of a worse fate to befall a Hunter.”

 

Killian nods, but he doesn’t look at her.  His eyes are glued to Emma’s face.

“Love,” he says, “are you all right?”

Emma laughs, short and bitter.  “Yeah.  Totally fine.  You’ve been sitting next to me in agony and I never noticed a thing.  I’m peachy.”

His hand in hers tightens even more and he tugs at it, forces her to look at him.  “That is not your fault.  Please don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“ _She_ noticed,” Emma spits in Ashley’s direction.  “And she doesn’t even know you!”

Killian’s eyes are soft.  “She may be a special case, love.  She sensed _me_.  Coming down her _driveway_.  She’s the first Hunter ever to sense me.  Even you didn’t---”  Emma laughs again, hard and brittle-- “and your senses are exceptional.”

“From where I’m standing they’re not working at all.”  She can’t keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Emma,” he says, and his eyes grow impossibly softer.  “Please don’t.  Don’t do this to yourself.  You are an extraordinary Hunter.  You are an extraordinary person.  You are---”  He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain, and Emma looks up to see Ashley wiping disinfectant across his wound.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.  “Didn’t want to interrupt.  But I really think he could use this shot sooner rather than later.”

“What is it?”  It comes out harsher than Emma intended.  Like an accusation.

Ashley ignores her tone, tilts the phial and starts drawing the syringe.  “Hunter’s cocktail,” she says.  “Antibiotics, painkillers, muscle relaxant, and a few things which promote healing.  As you can see we get lots of injured people through here.”  And with that, she injects the needle right into Killian’s wound.

 

He screams.  His back arches clear off the table.  Emma’s gut contracts to the point of nausea and she holds onto his hand for dear life.  And then he suddenly relaxes all at once, and it is only then that she notices just how tense he has been.

 

He opens his eyes and looks at Emma.  “That was bracing.”  He sounds out of breath.  But he smiles at her.  She’s ridiculously glad to see it.

 

Ashley pulls out a jar of ointment as she speaks and dabs it liberally across Killian’s wound.  “We’ll have to pull the stitches tomorrow.”  She puts a bandage on it, affixes it with adhesive tape, and then looks up.  “There’s a guest room upstairs in the clock tower.  Go and get some rest, both of you.”  She starts to clean down and put everything away, and then notices that neither Killian nor Emma have moved.  At all.

She huffs with impatience.  “Go.  Both of you.  There are sleep clothes in the dresser and toiletries in the bathroom.”

Emma’s eyebrows rise in question.  

Ashley grins.  “You’re not the first people to crash here.”

 

Killian sits up.  For the first time since he got shot his movements are easy, unencumbered.  Emma allows herself a small sigh of relief.

“Graham and I will burn through the night,” Ashley goes on.  “Re-examine every lead we ignored over the last few months.  We’ll have something for you by morning.”

 

 

 

 

The guest room is everything Ashley promised and more.  It’s clean and cozy, and there are t-shirts and cotton pants and packaged toothbrushes and fresh sheets.

 

There’s also only one bed.

 

Emma doesn’t even mind anymore.  Her body feels leaden, and she is so, so tired.

When they lie down, she simply turns towards Killian.  She settles her head on his shoulder and lets him put his arm around her and pull her close.

“You all right, love?”  His voice is quiet.  “Or are you still upset with yourself?”

She huffs a small laugh.  “I’m too tired to be upset.  I’ll be mad at myself in the morning.”

“Please don’t.”  He starts to rub her back slowly.  “Don’t compare yourself to others.  There is no reason for you to feel inferior.  Ever.”  He takes a deep breath.  “You are the most remarkable person I have ever met.  You are brave and strong and honest and you have a kind heart.  Don’t take that away from yourself.”  His voice drops to a whisper.  “Don’t take that away from me.”

Emma wants to reply, wants to argue, but she can’t find the words.  He has blindsided her again with his sincerity.  She can hear it in his voice, how much he means every word.

All she can do is nod.

He pulls her close again and continues to rub her back in unhurried, rhythmic movements.  It’s incredibly soothing.

Right before she falls asleep she feels him drop a kiss to the top of her head.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys - i realize that this may very well break the record for "slowest slow burn of all times".  
> Please bear with me. There is a plan. But this story has its own pace, and i cannot hurry it along, because this is how it wants to be written. (My muse and i have had discussions about this. She won't budge.)
> 
> So please, have patience. i'm trying really, really, really hard to not f*ck this up, i promise.


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

It’s still dark when Emma wakes up.  Killian’s breathing next to her is deep and even.  She takes a deep breath, smells the cotton of his t-shirt, the soft scent of his skin next to hers, and wonders why nothing inside her is screaming to bolt.  Bolting is what she does.

Distance is what she does.

 

_Alone is what she is, and she likes it that way._

 

He sighs in his sleep and his breath stutters for a moment, and then his arm pulls her closer and his breathing relaxes again.  And Emma feels---  _quiet_.  Nothing inside her is yelling to  _GetOut_ ,  _GetAway_ ,  _Run_  -- and it should be terrifying.

It should be terrifying.

Instead it’s lovely and wonderful, and here, in the darkness of this foreign room, she cannot bring herself to fight it.  She lets herself sink into it, takes another deep breath, and closes her eyes.

 

 

The next time Emma is woken up by a loud hiss beside her, and then quick, almost violent movement.  Killian has vaulted from the bed.

She opens her eyes to find the sun full on her face, and Killian wedged into the corner of the room, standing in the lone patch of shade.  They have forgotten to close the curtains.

Emma jumps up to draw the blinds, and then looks at him.

“You OK?”

He’s holding his side again, his hands trembling slightly, but he smiles.  “Fine, love. Sorry I woke you.”

He looks rumpled and disheveled and abashed, and god help her, she likes it.  She sits back down on the bed and pats the mattress next to her, looking at his shaking hands.  
“You want to come sit down before you fall down?”

He sits down beside her with a wince.  “Really, I’m fine.” She’s still staring pointedly at the hand pressed to his side.  “It was just the sudden movement.”

 

But the trembling doesn’t subside.

Emma’s eyes narrow as an awful suspicion dawns on her.  “Killian? Do you need---” She clears her throat. “Did you--  did you bring any----” For some reason, she can’t say it.

He does it for her.  “Blood?”

She nods.

He sighs.  “No, I didn’t bring any.  I usually only need it during the full moon.”

“Usually?”

He looks away.  In his lap Emma can see him ball his shaking hand into a tight fist.  Straining to keep it still.

“Killian?”  She whispers.  “What do you mean by ‘usually’?”

“Except for when I’m….”  His voice trails off.

“Except for when you’re hurt?”  Emma can’t help it. She sounds like a school teacher scolding a student for forgetting his homework.  “You need it when you’re hurt and you didn’t think to bring any?”

 

He hangs his head.  “I thought it was getting better.  I didn’t-- I didn’t think I needed it.”

Emma would roll her eyes if she wasn’t so worried, but then she takes a long look at his face.  He looks chagrined. Ashamed. No,  _mortified_.

She takes his shaking fist and wraps both hands around it.  When she speaks, her voice is back to a whisper. “Killian---  are you---” She shakes her head. “Do you feel you have to hide this?  From  _me?_ ”

His eyes close and his head ducks down even further and Emma squeezes his hand.  “Look at me.”

He doesn’t move.

“Killian, please--- please look at me.”

 

Slowly, very slowly he lifts his head.  But he won’t meet her eyes. “It’s just….”  His voice cuts out and he tries again. “You already have enough reminders of how not-human I am.”

Emma pulls at his fist until he opens it.  Laces her fingers through his. “Please don’t--- there is no reason for you to hide from me.  Ever. For anything.”

A shudder goes through him.

“If I’ve learned anything in the last few days, anything at all, it’s that being human has nothing to do with biology. At all.”  She pulls his hand up to her heart. “You  _are_  human.  You’re human because you  _choose_  to be.”  She squeezes his fingers, hard.  “Please look at me,” she whispers.

His head comes up all the way and his eyes find hers - large and sad and heartbreakingly hopeful.

“But----”

“But nothing,” she says, her voice firm now.  “You may not have chosen your fate. But you damn sure aren’t ruled by it, either.  You do good every day. You give shelter and help and fucking  _hope_  to all those who need it.”  She swallows hard. “Even wayward Hunters.  You don’t hide from anyone. Least of all me.”

 

There are tears in his eyes, but they do not fall.

And Emma realizes with frightening clarity that this whole time,  _this whole time_ , they have been marching to the beat of her drum, and her drum alone.

He has given her comfort and shelter and support and even silence, whenever she needed it.  He offered his help unasked, fought alongside her without question, gave her space when their connection overwhelmed her, offered up pieces of his soul when she was too scared to reveal her own, saved her life  _twice_  and got hurt in the process -- and never asked for anything in return.

And now that he needs her,  _needs_  her, he’s still not asking.

Just sits there, tremors running through his body, unwilling to demand what she may not be ready to give.

She has done this.  To him.  

She closes her eyes as shame burns hot through her, leans forward and wraps her arms around him and just hugs him.

Hugs him and hugs him and doesn’t let go.

 

 

 

 

“This might sting a bit.  They’re all crusted over.”

 

Killian is back on the infirmary exam table, Ashley closely inspecting his stitches.  Tremors now run through his body in earnest, his knuckles are white as his hands grip the metal on each side of him.  He looks like he’s working incredibly hard at lying still.

Emma bites her lip.  “It was bleeding a lot when Snow patched him up.  She did the best she could under the circumstances.”  Emma remembers feeling as helpless and useless as she’d ever felt, watching Snow expertly handle a surgical needle and thread.  Emma couldn’t have.

It’s at the top of her to do list now - learning rudimentary surgery.

 

“It’s good work,” Ashley says, picking up scissors.  “Next time, just flush it with saline before you put on the bandage.  If you have any.”

The muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps as Ashley removes Snow’s handiwork.  His eyes squeeze shut when she gives him another shot, but he doesn’t scream this time.  And the wound does look better, much better than it did the night before.

“Done.”  Ashley puts down the syringe.  “I’ll give you another shot before you leave.”

 

“Wait.”  Emma turns to Ashley.  “Can you draw blood? Mine, specifically?”

Ashley’s eyebrows shoot up and she says, “Sure.  Whatever for?”

Just as Killian hisses, “ _Emma, no!_ ”

“A donation.”  Emma’s voice is clipped.  She has absolutely no intention of explaining herself.  She levels Killian with a glare as she goes on. “Get however much is safe to take.”

Killian shakes his head and Emma puts a hand on his shoulder.  She can feel him trembling. “You’re getting worse.” His mouth opens in protest and she cuts him off.  “We are doing this.”

 

Then she turns back to Ashley, watching them through narrowed eyes.  She doesn’t comment, and Emma is grateful for it. Instead she motions Emma to a chair, and pulls up a tray of instruments, before she sits down beside her.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says, handing Emma a small rubber ball.  “Don’t squeeze that until I tell you to.”

“Emma.”  Killian’s voice is a whisper.  “Please Emma. Please don’t.”

She looks at him shudder and shakes her head.  “If it were me, and you had a way to save me, would you do it?”

She can see her point hit home, bring him up short.  She can see him gear up to reply, most likely with a beautifully worded, concise counter argument, and heads him off at the pass.  “Of course you would.” She nods at him, makes her voice low, soft. “Then why take that away from me?”

Next to her Ashley snorts.  Emma turns to her with a raised eyebrow.  “Laugh all you want, Cinderella,” she says.  “As long as you get with the needle ASAP.”

 

Killian’s eyes never leave Emma’s face as the line running from her arm turns red and starts filling the bag attached at the end.  He sits on the exam table, still as a statue except for the tremors which run through him more and more frequently. The only sound is Emma squeezing the rubber ball occasionally.  Even Ashley has stopped moving and just sits there, monitoring the blood flow.

 

Finally she pulls the needle from Emma’s arm and presses down hard with a compress.  “Hold this,” she says, “hold it tightly while I get a bandage.”

“Don’t you mean a band-aid?”

Ashley shakes her head.  “That was a 17 gauge needle, honey.”  She wraps a bandage around the compress.  “A band-aid’s not gonna cut it.”

Out of the corner of her eye Emma sees Killian blanch white as a sheet.  Ashley ties off the bandage and hands Emma the blood bag.

Emma looks up.  “Can you give us a minute?”

“Don’t get up too fast.”  Ashley walks to the door. “Come and find us in the server room when you’re done.”

 

It’s almost a standoff; Killian still on the table, Emma still reclined in the chair.  Neither of them moves for almost a minute. And then Emma gets up and slowly makes her way over to where he’s sitting, pale as a ghost, his eyes looking shell-shocked and shiny.

She puts the bag of blood in his lap.

He blinks, and this time tears start to roll down his cheeks.

 

He looks down at the bag, back up to her face.  Down at the bag. Up to her face. Tears falling silently.

And then he leans forward and presses his lips to hers.

 

It lasts no time at all.  His lips brush hers lightly, in the space of a fluttering moment, and then they’re gone again.

 

Emma goes stiff as a board.  Watches as he leans back, scanning her face, and god, he looks so apprehensive.  Afraid of her reaction.

And a part of her she never knew existed starts to shift.

Slowly she reaches up, cups his cheek, and whispers, “Drink.”

 

His eyes close for a moment, and he presses his cheek into the palm of her hand.  Then he lifts the bag, and his hands shake so badly, he can’t work the spout. So she opens it for him, just like she did back in his apartment, a lifetime ago.

The tears have stopped, but his eyes are still so large and shiny and scared and  _hopeful_ , she has to turn away.  She tells herself it’s to give him privacy.

It’s a lie, and she knows it.

When he whispers “Thank you” behind her, her knees nearly buckle.

 

When they make their way back to Ashley and Graham, her arm is wrapped around his waist, and his is wrapped around her shoulder, and it’s impossible to tell who’s supporting whom.

 

 

 

 

“There are bear claws over there.”  Graham points to a brown paper bag on a small side table.  “Help yourself.”

 

Emma and Killian sit down on the couch, each holding a pastry.  Killian sits as close to Emma as possible, presses his whole side up against hers.  Ashley nods at them briefly, while Graham’s eyes stay riveted to his monitors.

 

“We found out very little, I’m sorry to say,” Graham goes on.  “But what we have is here.”

Ashley hands them a stack of printouts.

“This is every sighting of a creature that either should not exist, or is not native to these shores.  Complete with date, time, and location.”

Emma starts to leaf through the stack, careful not to get icing on it.  “Very little? Graham, this is amazing. This is so much more than we had!”

“Well, it’s not exactly tangible anything,” Ashley sighs.  “And it defies all explanation. We’re set up for communication much more than research.  I think for this we need an expert.”

 

“We have an expert.”  It’s the first time Killian has spoken since he left the infirmary, and his voice sounds raw.  He clears his throat. “We should take this to Belle, love.”

Emma nods.

Ashley looks at Graham.  “Maybe I should go with them.”

“Absolutely not.”  Emma closes her eyes and the brusqueness in her voice, and then looks up in apology.  “Sorry. But no, you can’t. Our expert is a vampire. Her girlfriend is a shapeshifter.  Killian’s friend is a werewolf. You’d go insane.”

“Wow.”  Ashley laughs out loud.  “You’re just the poster children for diversity, aren’t you?  How’s Snow handling all that?”

“Better than expected.”  It’s Killian who answers.  “So is Emma, by the way.” He takes her hand again.  It sounds like he’s  _proud_  of her.  Emma doesn’t know what to think anymore.

“But she’s right, you can’t come.”  His voice is firm. “Your senses are in a league of their own.  No offense, but I don’t think you’d be able to handle yourself within a mile of my bar.  And I’m not telling you where it is.”

Ashley nods.  “Fair enough.”  Then her voice grows soft and quiet.  “But I think the time will come when you will need my help.  And then I hope you ask for it. Whatever this is, I don’t think you should face it alone.”

 

And then pieces of the previous night’s conversation suddenly align in Emma’s mind.  “I just realized something. When you were talking about Hunting vampires yesterday -- you were speaking in the present tense, but Graham wasn’t.”  Graham’s head snaps up. “You were using past tense.” Emma looks at Ashley. “Are you still Hunting?”

Ashley answers, “I am.”  While Graham simultaneously says, “She’s not.”  And then they both squirm.

 

Ashley rolls her eyes.  “It’s an ongoing discussion.  But rest assured I’m still very much at the top of my game.  And if you need me, I will come.”

Graham just sits very still, pretending to look at his monitors.  Obviously not seeing a thing. Ashley leans over to kiss his cheek, but he neither moves nor responds.

Ashley sighs.  “Let me show you out,”

 

When they get to the truck, Ashley makes them promise to call in any and all information.  And to call for help the moment they need her. They promise.

“You OK?”  Emma finally asks as she gets behind the wheel.

Ashley runs her finger down the side of the door.  “It’s tricky sometimes. Being a Hunter - it’s what I am.  It’s what defines me. Graham doesn’t have to make that distinction anymore - he’s already been stripped of his definition once.”  She sighs. “He wants us to have a more normal life. Mostly he wants a whole bunch of kids, and I have trouble getting used to the idea of a pet, so you could say we’re working on it.”  She smiles and closes the truck door, then hands Emma a small pouch through the open window. “Here are two more shots for Killian. One for tonight, one for tomorrow morning. That should do you.”

Emma bites her lip while Killian thanks her.

 

They say their good-byes and Emma pulls back onto the highway, and the whole time all she can think of is whether being a Hunter defines her more than being a person does.

 

 

 

 

It’s quiet in the car for a long time after they leave.

Emma just drives, eyes glued to the road ahead.  Killian finds a comfortable position in the passenger seat and stops wincing, but his posture remains tense.

In the late afternoon rain starts to splatter the windshield, and for a while Emma is lulled by the rhythmic back-and-forth of the wiper blades.

 

Almost an hour passes before Killian clears his throat and turns towards her.

His voice is quiet, hesitant.  “Emma, I----” He cuts himself off, shakes his head.  Tries again. “What are you thinking about, love?”

 

So many things.

Her thoughts have been circling the same drain since she pulled onto the freeway, 

How she might be nothing more than a Hunter.  Ever.

She has never thought of Hunting as anything other than something she does.  But now the doubt rises unbidden, whispering that Hunting might not just be the purpose, but the meaning of her life.  She doesn’t know any Hunters who have actually left the life intact - they all end up broken, or dead, or both. And she has never wanted more, never  _thought_  about wanting more, but now that she feels she  _can’t_  want more, well….  She remembers waking up next to Killian, peaceful and content every single time, and god, she wants at least the possibility of----

The possibility of---

 

What if this--- this is her life?  What if this is all it will ever be?

What if she goes on Hunting until she dies in the wreckage of all the things she will never have?

 

Tears spring to her eyes and she angrily wipes them away with her sleeve before they can escape.  And then she feels his hand wrap around her wrist, gently pulling it towards him, his thumb rubbing her pulse point.

“Are you all right, love?”

His voice is so fucking soft.  His eyes, when she looks over at him, are so fucking worried.  It hits her in all the wrong places, his concern and his goddamn  _caring_ , and a sob claws its way out of her throat and then the fucking dam. Breaks.

 

She barely has enough time to pull over onto the shoulder and throw the truck in park before the next sob rips her in half and she  _cries_.

She leans her head against the steering wheel; cold, hard plastic digging into her forehead, and pulls her hand from his grasp, grips that steering wheel with white knuckles and cries and cries and cries.

She hears Killian unbuckle his seat belt, hears him unclick hers, feels his arms come up and pull her over to his side until her head is pressed against his beating heart and she can’t fight anymore.

 

She lets him wrap his arms, his  _body_ , around her, lets him rub her back and bury his nose in her hair, and she lets him let her cry until there is nothing left of her.

 

 

 

 

 

When Emma is done crying, she nearly falls asleep in Killian’s arms.

She feels him drop another kiss to the top of her head and then he simply slides behind the wheel.  Emma lies down on the bench seat, her legs angled up and her head on his thigh, in the exact inverse position of how they drove out to the Hub.

Killian wraps his mangled left hand around the steering wheel while his right keeps rubbing her shoulder.  She doesn’t sleep, and they don’t talk, but he smiles at her often. Every time he does, his knuckles brush her cheek before his fingers slowly whisper down her neck and then settle back on her arm.  She can see the knuckles of his left hand turn white in what must be an uncomfortably tight grip, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His right hand only comes up to assist once they enter the town.

 

They get to the library long past nightfall.

 

He puts the car in park in the library lot and it takes him a long moment to unclench his fingers from the steering wheel.  His right hand starts to massage his left wrist and he looks over at Emma before she can say anything.

“Please don’t apologize.”

Emma sputters.

He looks at her with those soft, kind eyes.  “I know you were about to, love. Please don’t.  There is nothing for which you should apologize.”

“Does it hurt?”  She whispers.

“It’s fine, I promise.”  He drops both hands in his lap.  “Are  _you_  all right?  It’s going to be a long night, love.”

Emma squares her shoulders.  Her moment of weakness and doubt has long passed.  “I’m ready,” she says, her voice firm. “Let’s go get some answers.  We’re fucking  _due_.”  

 

 

 

Hours later Killian, Emma, Ruby, and Belle stand facing a large map of the state, tacked to the wall.  On it are enough pins, strings, and post-it notes to do credit to a cop procedural. Especially since there are at least three large pizza boxes strewn around, most of their contents devoured.  As well as two empty blood bags in the trash, because Emma didn’t want Belle to have to go to the bathroom to feed while they were all chowing down together.

It earned her her first real smile from Ruby.

Which felt better than it had any right to.

 

Emma takes a few steps back to study the map.  On it all of Graham’s sightings are clearly marked, dated and time-stamped.  All movement is represented, as well as all the Hunters Graham tracked, and every rumor and whisper.  In front of her is everything they know.

Almost every pin is within a 20-mile-radius of where they are.  There are only a few pins scattered farther away, and only two out of state, hovering at the edges of the map with arrows pointing away.  The Chimera pin has a large X drawn through its note, as well as the Orthrus’ and three others. At least one Hunter - Leroy - has an X with a question mark next to him.  Rumor has him on the losing end of a fight with a harpy.

 

With a shudder Emma turns and sits down next to Killian on the couch.  He immediately slides his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, and she lets him.

“I know it’s daunting.”  His voice is low next to her ear.  “But we will prevail. I promise.”

 

At that Belle looks up and puts down the book she’s been reading for the past half hour.

“I’m not so sure,” she says, her eyes on Killian.  “I’m finally starting to see the big picture and it’s--- it’s not good.”

Ruby sits down beside her.  Belle is still looking at Killian.  Emma’s heart constricts.

When Killian speaks, his voice is low, and sure.  “Out with it, Belle. Tell us everything.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are incredible.  
> i love that you are all willing to go along with this story and this slowest of slow burns. It means the world to me.  
> THANK YOU.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

Before Belle can say anything, there’s a pounding on the library doors.

“Sorry, guys,  that’s----  that’s Snow.”  Emma looks at Belle and Ruby in apology.  “I texted her, when we started to make headway with the map.”  Emma cringes a little under the death glare Ruby is currently leveling at her -- that woman has serious wattage in her look -- but she will not be cowed.  “She--- she should be here for this.  She should know what’s going on.”  She looks at Belle, who seems completely calm.  “Also, Snow might have useful information.  She’s been following her own leads.”

The pounding comes again and Belle gets up.  “Then by all means we should let her in.”

Ruby nearly chokes.

Belle has a decent death-glare herself, and it’s levelled at Ruby.

“Emma,” she says, not taking her eyes off her girlfriend, “would you be so kind as to open the door?  While I explain to the love of my life that this is the kind of situation where we can’t afford _not_ to have all hands on deck?”

Emma bites down hard on a grin and gets up while Ruby sputters.

 

 

Outside are Snow, jaw clenched to the point of pain and shoulders pulled back - and David.  There’s not an inch of space between them.  They’re not actually holding hands, but their hands are touching.  Emma has to bite down on a whole new grin.

It feels good, this bit of levity inside the turmoil.

 

“I closed the bar early,” David says.  “I want to know what the hell is going on, too.”

Emma can’t blame David for wanting information.  She also can’t blame him for not saying that the main reason he’s here is for Snow.  Who is currently taking deep, centering breaths, before squaring her shoulders even more.  
David looks at her.  “You OK?”

Snow nods, her lips a tight line.  “I’m good.  Let’s do this.”

 

 

 

When they get to the others, Snow stops right outside of their little circle.  Her muscles tense, but they do not go rigid, and she closes her eyes.  Takes another deep breath.  David takes her hand, almost casually, and Snow relaxes a fraction.  She opens her eyes and looks straight at Belle.

“Please keep your sparkles to yourself.  I really need all my senses tonight.”  Then she nods at Ruby.  “I got this.  You good?”

Ruby rolls her eyes.  “Apart from the fact everyone here has decided to take a walk on the crazy side?  Yeah--- I’m good.”

Emma walks over to sit beside Killian on the couch and they exchange highly amused looks.  It seems that he, too, can find amusement in absurdity, and she really--- likes that he does.

 

David and Snow both sit down on the far side of the map.  On the far side of Belle and Ruby.  David keeps holding Snow’s hand, and Snow doesn’t seem to mind at all.

 

Belle picks up her notebook and starts turning back pages.  Many, many pages, filled with tightly written notes.  When she looks up her face is so serious, Emma’s breath catches.

 

“I think I know who your Dark One might be.” Belle begins.  “The actual demon.  He has a name which can literally not be said out loud.  According to lore, evil befalls all those who do.  So I won’t say it, because I don’t think we need to actively tempt fate.  But I have compelling reasons for thinking your Dark One is the demon in question.”

She turns a page and takes a deep breath.

“First of all, there are the creatures.  They’re not portents.  They’re distractions.”

 

Five pairs of eyebrows rise in question.  Belle almost loses her train of thought.

“I think he made them,” she finally goes on.  “Literally made them.  To keep us busy.  And by ‘us’ I mean everybody.  Predator and prey alike.”

“You’re not prey,” Emma says quietly.  “Not to us.  Not anymore.”

Belle smiles.  It is completely devoid of joy.  “We’re all prey to the Dark One.  This is a powerful demon.  There are not that many demons who can actually walk the earth.  And by that I mean physically manifest here, as opposed to possessing someone.  Possession is much more likely and much more common, but even so it’s exceedingly rare.  But manifestation?  That’s practically unheard of.  There are stories of only two demons who were able to do so."

She clears her throat, checks her notes. "One of them is rumored to have caused chaos and mayhem in the Song mountains of China more than a thousand years ago, and was the reason for the Shaolin monks becoming martial artists.  There is some evidence to support that they vanquished this demon eventually, although it doesn’t say how it was achieved anywhere that I could find.”  She turns another page.  “The other demon is most likely this Dark One.  Who is supposed to have such powerful magic that he can bend the laws of nature itself.  We have been facing actual, physical creatures, created from myths.  That's exactly that kind of powerful magic.”

 

There is a long silence, before Ruby turns to Belle.  “Why from myths?”

It’s David who answers.  “Is it because it’s easier to just--- create something that already exists in the minds of people?  Even if it’s just fiction?”

“Probably.”  Belle nods.  “We have a hard time understanding what we can’t imagine in the first place.  I think if he manifested things which are completely outside of the human experience---”

“---our brains would fry.”  Snow cuts in.  “Sounds about right.  Also--”  she turns to Killian, “you met the Dark One.  He looked like a man, right?”

Killian nods.  But he doesn’t speak.  He looks like he’s following his own train of thought.

“That’s because our brains would melt if he looked like a demon.”  Snow smirks. "And I guess that's not what he's after."

Ruby shakes her head slowly. “I think it might be complicated to create creatures from scratch.  Why go through the trouble of figuring out where internal organs should go if you can just flip to a page in a book and go ‘that one’.”

 

“That would explain the mistakes.”  Puzzle pieces start to align in Emma’s mind.  “The Chimera didn’t spit fire.  The Orthrus reared like a fucking horse when we faced it.  Dogs don’t do that, hellhound or not.  I guess he just didn’t get those details right.”

Belle nods again.  “It’s powerful and complicated magic he is using.  There’s lots of room for mistakes.”

“You said they were distractions,” David says.  “You said he’s making these, these--- _things_ to keep us busy.”

Snow scoots closer to him on the floor.  “Battle tactics,” she says quietly.  “Keep us on edge.  Keep our energy scattered.  Keep us fighting needless battles.”  She pats his bandaged arm.  “Weaken us wherever possible.”

Belle looks up.  “Exactly.  So we don’t pay attention to what’s really going on.”

 

There it is, running down Emma’s spine like a finger of ice.  Dread.

 

“And what’s really going on?”  Killian’s voice is a whisper.

Belle remains silent for a long moment.

Nobody moves.

When Belle turns yet another one of her notebook pages, the sound tears through the silence like a buzzsaw.  “He wants to free himself.  From you.”

 

Emma can’t breathe as every single muscle and tendon in her body contracts.  Without a thought she takes a hold of Killian’s hand and nearly crushes it in hers.  His left hand.  She doesn’t realize it until she hears his sharp intake of breath.  She looks down and unclenches her fingers, but she doesn’t let go.

She can’t let go.

 

The dread becomes fear.

 

“Go on.”  Killian’s voice is soft and inviting and Emma wants to scream at the insanity of it all, because they are so far off the reservation.  So far past the _ludicrous and ridiculous_ of what her life used to be; so far past the neat boxes of Things To Leave Be and Things To Eradicate; so far, far beyond Good and Evil and the life she has chosen -- this life that was supposed to be dangerous in its vocation but safe in its solitude - _god_ \---

It hits her, all at once.

She is holding the hand of a man, a _cursed_ man, a hand that is scarred and warm and _real_ ; in a library where a vampire and a shapeshifter and a werewolf and two Hunters are talking about an Evil that is bigger and stronger and more powerful than all of them, _than all of them_ , and it’s coming for the man next to her.

 

It is coming.  For him.

And he is calmly asking about it, as if he were inquiring about the weather.

Why is she not screaming?  Why isn’t _he_?

 

Killian’s hand twitches and spasms as he tries to squeeze Emma’s hand back, and suddenly she wants to cry.  She doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next.

She is so, so afraid.  For someone other than herself.

She closes her eyes and waits for Belle to go on.  To spell out their doom.

 

She can hear Belle draw a deep breath.  “I looked up everything I could find on curses.”  Belle’s voice is unsteady, but not unsure.  “And yours doesn’t exist.”

Emma’s eyes snap open.  Killian next to her tenses.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t exist?”  It’s David who speaks, his voice like broken glass.

Belle shakes her head.  “Not as a single curse, no.  From what I can tell---” her eyes flick to Killian-- “it’s a lot of different curses.  Layers of curses.  Interwoven, tied together; altered, tweaked, rewritten to form a new whole.”

 

The silence that follows that statement is absolute.

And interminable.

 

It takes a full minute for Belle to go on.  “It’s magic so complicated, it’s actually impossible.  Not improbable.  Not unlikely.  Not ‘almost’ impossible.  _Impossible_.”

Emma can’t hear anyone breathing.  Not a single one of them.

When Belle speaks again, it’s a hesitant whisper.  “I think the Dark One accidentally tied _himself_ into this curse.”

 

“ _What?_ ”  It echoes from four throats at once.  Killian alone has remained silent.

Belle bites her lip, and then she looks at Killian as if he were the only person in the room.  “I could find no curse for immortality.  Obviously immortal beings can be _made_.  I’m one of them.  The Undead exist in many forms.  But there is no _curse_ for it.  They must be _created_.  I think your immortality was a completely unplanned side-effect.  I think it is part of the demon’s power, accidentally caught up in the fabric of your curse.  And I think that’s why the Dark One is coming after you.  To free himself.”

 

Emma’s brain flatlines.

She can feel consequence stretching out from Belle’s theory like a fist of pure terror strangling her, and all she can hear ringing in her ears is _HeIsComingToKillHim_.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until Killian’s arm wraps around her and pulls her close.  And she doesn’t care if anyone is watching, she buries her face in his chest and listens to his heartbeat.

_ThumpThump._

_ThumpThump._

_ThumpThump._

 

She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, and then she squares her shoulders and sits up straight.

And leans into it.  “So this Dark One is not--  is not---?”

“Is not at full strength.”  Snow cuts in.  She looks like she’s already girding for battle.  It gives Emma a boost of hope she wasn’t expecting.

“I’m certain of it.” Belle’s voice is sure.  “I mean - where has he been for the past century?  Demons don’t go through the trouble of figuring out a way to walk the earth, wreak havoc for a minute and then drop off the radar.”

“That’s a really good point.”  Ruby raises an eyebrow.  “Where _has_ he been all this time?”

“Probably looking for an alternative source of strength.”  Killian’s voice is that terrible neutral he had when he told her his story, and something inside Emma begins to _ache_.

“And a weapon.”

“ _What?_ ”  This time all five pairs of eyes snap to Belle’s face at once.

 

Snow is the first to gather her wits again.  “What kind of weapon?”

Belle sighs.  “We are getting into the deep end of rumor and conjecture here, so I don’t know if any of this has a shred of truth to it.  But there are stories about a weapon.  A dagger.  It gives the Dark One unlimited power.  It can also kill him.  But---”

“It can kill him?”  Emma can’t help it.  Her voice is an octave higher than it should be.

“At a terrible price,” Belle says quietly.  “I don’t know what that price may be.  But I know that no one has ever attempted to use this weapon against the Dark One, so I think the price must be high.  Too high.”

 

“You think the Dark One has the dagger already, don’t you.”  Killian’s voice is low.  And still terribly neutral.  The ache inside Emma gets worse.  He sounds so resigned.

Belle bites her lip again and turns another page in her notebook.  “I do.  I think he needs it to free himself from you.  And that is the reason he’s coming after you now.  He has found it.”

“What happens when the Dark One gets his power back?  All of it?”  Killian’s voice is nothing but a whisper now.

Belle just shrugs, and it’s the most helpless gesture yet.  But Emma doesn’t need an answer.  She knows as well as all of them: The Dark One at full power would unleash terror the likes of which they have never seen.  Or imagined.  Or survived.

 

 

 

And then.  
Suddenly.

Out of nowhere.

Out of perfect.  Silence.

A figure walks around the corner.

 

And Emma can’t move.  At all.

Her hand is locked around Killian’s.  His is locked in hers.  Her breath comes in short, painful gasps.

She strains her muscles to the point of pure pain, but she is immobile.  The only thing she can move are her eyes.

And as far as she can see, everyone else is suffering from the exact same paralysis.

 

Snow’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of her face.

Ruby’s neck is a mass of corded muscle and tendons, frozen solid.

David’s mouth hangs open.

Belle’s face registers shock such as Emma has never seen - shock, and _recognition_.

She can’t turn to see Killian, but he doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

 

And her instincts are _SCREAMING_.

 

The figure is that of a tall man with close-cropped brown hair and impressively wide shoulders.  He is dressed for a night out on the town in the Fifties -- three-piece suit, polished Oxfords, dark wool winter coat and a Fedora.  His skin is whiter than milk and his smile supercilious as he steps inside their circle to study each of them in turn.

He doesn’t make a sound.

 

Next to her Killian’s breathing starts up again, fast and shallow and uneven.  It’s driving her mad, the fact that she can’t look at him.

 

The man’s eyes fall on the map and he steps lightly over Ruby’s legs to inspect it more closely.  There is an unnatural grace to his movements, a liquid elegance; it is terrible in its beauty, fearsome it its silence.

Finally he turns around, takes a few steps forward, and lets his eyes wander past each of their faces before settling on Killian.

When he speaks, his voice is menace and glee and utmost disdain wrapped in mellifluous tones smoother than silk.  “You have been busy, little brother.  Busy indeed.”

 

_It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.  Those words, in that voice._

This.

This is Liam.

 

The man before her catches sight of their clasped hands and lets his eyes roam all over Emma before settling on her face, and she has never felt so violated.

Or so helpless.

Or so enraged.

 

“What have we here,” he whispers, and then he smiles.  His lips draw back and reveal a perfect set of large white fangs.  Even immobilized Emma’s entire body spasms.  Liam’s fangs retract slowly, leaving behind two rows of impeccable teeth.  His eyes narrow as he looks back at Killian.  “A _Hunter_ , little brother?  Really?”

Killian’s breathing rate doubles.  Emma is afraid he will pass out.

 

Liam turns slowly.  “It’s a motley gang, this,” he says quietly.  “Here’s a stray fledgling without her pack.”  He crouches before Belle whose eyes widen in terror.  “What they would do to you if they knew where you were.  Oh the punishment you would receive.”  He sounds like he’s enjoying a sinfully delicious treat.

Then he cocks his head to the left and looks at Ruby.  “I would so love to see the shape into which you can shift.  Taste it, too.  You look---” he takes a moment and Ruby’s eyes briefly flash yellow--- “appetizing.”

He gets up and turns to David.  “A _werewolf_?  Killian, have you no shame?  I taught you better than that.”  He turns to Snow and bends forward, runs a finger down her cheek.  “You, too, should know better, _Hunter_.  There is never a need to consort with this _filth_.”  Snow actually manages a hiss.  “Feisty, aren’t you,” Liam says, and snaps his fingers, and Snow’s hiss cuts out like clipped string.

 

He straightens back up and once again turns to Killian.  “I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”  His voice becomes a conspiratorial whisper.  “A little mystery is good for the soul.”

A groan claws its way out of Killian’s throat, and Liam shakes his head.  “Hush, little brother.  It’s not your time, yet.”

He looks at the map, looks at each of them again.  “It’s almost heartbreaking, really.  The way you’re all trying to understand.  The way you’re all trying to prepare.  Like you have a chance to stop what’s coming.  Like you have _hope_.”

He laughs.  It’s the single most terrifying sound Emma has ever heard.

“Well, I won’t keep you.”  He turns to go but stops, looks back one last time.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”  He turns again and starts to walk away.  In perfect silence.  “Not yet.  But soon.”

His laughter echoes as he disappears.

 

 

 

It takes a full minute for their paralysis to stop.

When it does, Snow and Emma jump up in concert and run to the front doors.  They circle the building in opposite directions, but Liam is gone.

Snow is shaking with rage.  Emma is no better.

Snow pops the trunk of her car and starts to unload an arsenal of weapons.  Stakes, crossbows, bottles of Dead Man’s Blood and Holy Water, and guns and bullets and rock salt.

They wordlessly fill a whole duffel bag before they make their way back inside.

 

“You.  Magic librarian,” Snow grinds out when they get back to the others.  “Tell me you have wards you can put up to keep him out.”

Belle nods.  She’s close to tears.  “It’s a public building,” she whispers.  It sounds like an apology.  “But I can, I can--- ”  She looks at Ruby, who takes her trembling hand.  “I can put them up, but you’ll have to invite me back in.”  She says it as if she’s not sure they will do so.  
Ruby shoots Snow a dirty look and pulls Belle in for a hug.  “That’s not even a question, my love,” she says.  And then kisses Belle, long and hard and with absolute disregard for decency.  David actually blushes.

 

Emma crouches down and unzips the duffel.  “Catch,” she says, and throws David a plastic jug of Holy Water.  “You, too, Ruby.”  And she slides the bag of rock salt towards her.  “Put both at all windows and doors.  Now.  We’re not taking any chances.”

They comply without hesitation.

Snow looks at Belle, who is headed towards her office.  “We need two buckets.  Or bowls.  Whatever you have.”  Belle nods, still trembling.  But she walks off with purpose.

 

And finally Emma looks at Killian.

He has not moved at all.

His eyes are large and blue and completely empty.  Emma would have preferred them red.  He is frighteningly still.

 

“I think we have found the source of the Dark One’s power.”  Snow’s voice is a whisper as Emma stands up.  This is so much worse than she thought.  So much worse than she thinks they can handle.

He can handle.

“I take it he knows our visitor?”  Snow’s voice remains low.  Her chin points at Killian.

Emma nods.  She can’t speak.  Can only look at Snow and hope for understanding.

And Snow does not disappoint.  “I’m going to go help Belle.”  Her voice is clipped as she turns to leave, but there is an undercurrent of empathy. 

 

Emma takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees in front of Killian.  His eyes do not follow her movement.  When she takes his hand, it stays lifeless in her own.

She looks at him, pale and silent and completely removed, and then does the only thing she can think of: She leans forward slowly, so slowly, and brushes his lips with her own.

 

When she pulls back, his eyes hold a mixture of terror and wonder.  But he _sees_ her again.

She cups his cheek and his eyes close and he whispers, “Emma.”

And then he moves.

Winds his hand into her hair and pulls her close and then, and then----

 

His lips are so soft and so hesitant and so goddamn gentle, she could shatter, _shatter_ inside this sweetness and tenderness and _need_.  She feels his arm wrap around her waist and pull her in between his legs, and his mouth opens; and the taste of him is like nothing and everything and it’s so lovely it’s painful and she could drown in this, drown in it and die happy.

He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy, his hand still in her hair, fingers playing softly at the back of her neck.

And says her name again, still in that broken whisper, and it’s everything that needs to be said.

 

 

 

“What if we break my curse first?”  

 

All the wards are up, all the entry points have been salt-lined and liberally sprinkled with Holy Water, and Killian has told them the story of Liam.

All of it.

 

And Snow has repeated her theory that the Dark One is feeding off Liam to supplement his power, and everyone agrees.  But no one knows how he’s doing it or what that entails.  Liam seemed plenty powerful.

 

And Belle is sure that in exchange for life-force Liam can use some of the Dark One’s magic, because vampires know a little bit about thrall and hypnosis, but they can’t just immobilize six people on the spot for an unlimited amount of time.  Especially not six people like them - with training and instincts and preternatural senses and _strength_.  And everyone agrees, but no one knows what to do with it.

 

And Emma is certain that the dagger is real and that the Dark One has it, because otherwise there would be no reason for Liam to show himself and stoop to theatrics.  And everyone agrees.  In fear.

 

And then Killian suggests that they break his curse before the Dark One can get him.

And despite everything Emma is completely unprepared for the spike of pure panic it brings.

She balls her hands into fists while she feels a shudder run through him.  Her nails dig into her palms, but it isn’t enough.

 

Killian looks at Belle.  “Would it take away that piece of his power for good?  The piece that’s inside me?”

Tears spring to Belle’s eyes and the panic inside Emma ratchets up several notches.  “Don’t---- I don’t think we can.”  Belle fights down a watery hiccup.  “Your curse is so intricate and complex and it’s been with you so long--  it’s a part of who you are.  And I don’t think… I don’t think we can break it.  Not without losing--- without losing---”

“Belle,”  he says softly.  “That’s not a no.  That’s barely a reason for not trying.  Does that mean there is a chance?  That eradicating my curse might take his power with it?”

Emma’s entire world microscopes around Belle’s head and neck and her shaking shoulders.  And the slow nod they resolve into.

“There’s a chance it will.”  It’s barely audible.

 

Next to her Emma can feel Killian take a deep breath, and she knows what he’s going to say.  The panic inside her is screaming now.  Screaming louder than her instincts ever have.

Killian’s mangled hand twitches as he puts it on one of her shaking fists.  Tries to rub it with his thumb, but it spasms and curls in on itself instead.  

 

When he speaks, his voice is completely calm.  “Purging my curse is our shot.  To weaken him permanently.  To get a fighting chance.  And if that’s what it takes, then you’ll just have to break me.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When i started and named this story, i had a vague notion of where the title might lead. Not even a notion. A zygote of a notion.  
> And i had no idea it would take me more than 30K words to figure it out and wind my way to it, but -- i really hope it was worth it.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

It comes on like a freight train, like a tidal wave, like an avalanche; and Emma gets up and runs, _runs_ \--- doors clanging, shoe soles squealing; and she doesn’t stop until she’s bent over a porcelain bowl.  There’s something inside her that’s bigger than fear, bigger than panic, and she can’t expel it, no matter how much she vomits.

And vomits.

And vomits.

 

She cannot stop shaking.  She can feel tears running down her face from the exertion of retching, and she cannot stop, she cannot _stop_.

She can’t place this, this thing that is happening to her, can’t understand it, can’t rein it in, because she’s never had a reaction like this, not to anything.  Ever.

She’s losing her fucking mind.

 

She hears a door being opened, slowly, behind her, and his voice, quiet and hesitant, “Love?”

Just that one word.

Like one of Snow’s bolts to her chest.

She can’t breathe.

It feels like being crushed.

 

A hand starts to rub down her back, comes up to pull her hair back, carefully, gently, and it’s too much, too much, _too much_.

She tries to inhale, but there’s no room in her lungs, no space for air to go.  Color washes out of her vision and everything goes grey and she closes her eyes.

 

 

When she opens them back up, he is wedged into the tiny bathroom stall next to her, and his arms around her are the only thing solid and real in her world.  Her lungs are working again and she wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.  From somewhere next to him he pulls a bottle of water and hands it to her.  She takes it and rinses and it brings tears to her eyes again, because he thinks of fucking everything.

 

And then she looks up.  “Please, Killian.  _Please_.”

He doesn’t answer.  Just looks at her, his eyes worried and immeasurably sad.

“Please don’t----”  The tears start to roll down her cheeks in large, heavy drops.  She doesn’t recognize her own voice.  However little of it is left.  “Don’t do this.  Don’t ask us to do this.”

She can feel her spine vibrate, that’s how hard she is shaking.  “Don’t ask me to do this.”

 

He leans his forehead against hers.  “Emma.”

Her name scrapes across her skin like sandpaper, like barbed wire, like shards of glass.

“Love.” His arms squeeze her tightly.  “How can we not do this?  How can we give up this one chance?”  He turns his head, brings his lips close to her ear.  “We might not be able to kill him.  There might be no way to actually defeat him.  But we can do permanent damage.”  He pulls back to look at her.  “ _Permanent_ damage.  Give everyone else a chance to survive.  Everyone.  Everywhere.”

 

Emma looks up.  At his eyes - somber and resigned and _heartbroken_ \- and a spark inside her catches flame.  It is the girl who went looking for the vampire, it is the woman who chose a life of violence and loneliness over a comfortable life without freedom of choice, it is the Hunter who faced down the Chimera.  It is the resounding _NO_ in the face of impossible circumstance.  It is the breaking of the seal on her very fate.

 

She leans forward and grabs his shirt front with both fists.  “We’re not doing it.”

 

And then she kisses him like her life depends on it. Like she wants to burn the taste, the feel, the _essence_ of him into her memory, for her to draw strength upon for the rest of her days.  Like she wants to imprint his soul on hers.

 

“Do you hear me?”  She tightens her fists, pulls him closer still, until his body is pressed against hers as tightly as the small space will let them.  “We are not doing that.”

He still says nothing, just watches her face twist in determination.

Emma takes a deep breath.  “We will find another way.”

She yanks her fists up and down to help make her point and whispers, “ _I_ will find another way.  If it’s the last thing I do.”

His eyes are still large and sad and resigned, but the left corner of his mouth twitches.  And then in a shaky voice he says, “OK.”

 

 

 

 

When they get back to the others, they encounter silence.  And four pairs of eyes looking up, just waiting for them.

Snow is sitting on the floor next to David.  Not an inch of space between them.

Emma and Killian sit down on the couch.  Not an inch of space between them.

Ruby and Belle complete the circle, practically in each other’s lap.

Closeness, it seems, is their only defense.

 

Emma looks at each of them in turn.  And then finally says, “We have to find another way.”

A collective sigh of relief makes its way through the group.

Then Snow looks up and says, “OK.  What’s the plan?” and Emma gets an overwhelming urge to go and hug the living daylights out of her.  Emma has realized that a Snow on board with any plan is half that plan’s success in the bag.

 

Then she looks at her watch.  “It’s late.  The first thing we should do is get some fucking sleep.”

And Ruby and David and Belle laugh out loud.

And suddenly everyone feels better.

 

Killian wraps his arm around Emma and buries his nose in her hair.  Emma leans into him and gives him a moment before she goes on.  “I think you should all come back to the bar with us.  I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.”

They all look at her like they’re seeing her for the first time.  And in part they are.  Emma is taking charge.  It feels good to act instead of waiting for doom.  She smiles at them as they all start to nod.

“All right.  Let’s get back to the bar and get some sleep.  And then tomorrow, we’ll get started on finding a second fucking option.  Is that clear?”

They’re still looking, wide-eyed.  And nod again.

 

Killian kisses her neck and whispers “thank you” into her ear.  Then he straightens up and looks around, and Emma can see the emerging determination take hold.  His entire posture straightens from defeat to attack.  Or at the very least, steadfastness.

It’s such a welcome change.  It gives her hope - real, almost tangible hope.  She can feel it spread, warm through her chest, and she takes his hand.  Squeezes it hard.

 

Then Snow clears her throat.  “We should call Ashley.”

Emma and Killian both flinch, but Belle _recoils_.  Emma looks at her, pure terror written across her face, and turns to Snow, shaking her head.  “We will.  But not yet.  We need a plan first, and we need to not give our resident book genius a heart attack.”

Snow smirks.  “Technically you can’t give someone who’s heart is no longer beating---”

“SNOW!”  All Emma can see is the panic in Belle’s eyes, and the fury in Ruby’s.  “I know we’re all tired, but _think_ before you speak!”

 

And then the impossible happens.  Ruby bursts out laughing.  After a second Snow starts in, and so does David, and gods - even Killian next to her chuckles, and then Belle’s face relaxes, and they spend minutes, _minutes_ , laughing out loud, wiping tears from their eyes.

 

“Oh god,” Emma says when she can breathe again.

Snow wheezes next to her.  “We are not nice people.”

Ruby looks over at Belle.  “You OK?”  Belle nods.  “Good.”  Ruby gives her a smacking kiss and then leans back.   “More importantly - is my mascara running?”

Which sets everybody off again.  

 

Emma has not laughed this much in remembered history, and for the first time ever she gets an inkling of the power of humor in the face of adversity.  It feels so much better than it has any right to.

 

Killian gets up, pulls Emma with him and nods in the general direction of everyone.  “Emma is right.  Let’s all go back to the bar and get everyone sorted.  And then get a fresh start tomorrow.  Belle, Ruby -- does either one of you own a sleeping bag?”

 

 

 

 

When they get back to the bar, Ruby and Belle make a beeline for Killian’s office.  Carrying exactly one sleeping bag between them.

 

David and Snow look at each other before Snow wordlessly takes David’s hand and makes her way to the store room.  And the stairwell behind it.  And turns towards the basement.

David stops dead in his tracks and forces Snow to turn around.  “No,” he whispers.  “Anywhere but down _there_.”

Snow looks at him with the softest expression Emma has ever seen on her face.  Up until a few days ago, she would not have thought her capable of such.  

“You know what I think?”  Snow smiles at David and pulls his hand towards her.  “I think it’s time you had some good memories of that room.”

David looks at Snow.  His expression is stunned.  He doesn’t respond, but he does relax his stance and lets her lead him towards the basement.  They disappear without another word.

 

 

Emma smiles and then looks at Killian.  He returns her smile briefly, but his eyes are serious.

And they hold a question.  A question she cannot answer out loud.

But what she can do is act.

And so she clasps his wrist and starts to walk upstairs, pulling him along, and does not stop until they’re both standing in his bedroom.

 

Wrapped in silence.

 

And then he looks at her again.  His tongue runs across his bottom lip, his eyes are huge now, his pupils blown wide, and they still hold the same question.

And Emma nods.

 

His hand comes up, winds into the hair at the back of her neck, and he pulls her close, slowly.  So slowly.  His lips touch hers as if he’s asking permission.  As if he’s still not sure.  
How, _how_ can he not be sure?

Emma surges forward and opens her mouth.  Explores the taste of him until small stars explode behind her closed eyes and god, it’s so--- so---  

She doesn’t have a word for what it is.  There are no words big enough for what she is feeling.

She wraps her arms around his middle and pushes him back, back, _back_ \- until they both fall and land on the mattress with a thump.

 

Killian groans.  
In pain, not pleasure.

 

Emma stills immediately, slides off him and reaches for the bandage on his side.  “Is this hurting you?” 

Killian’s eyes have gone almost black, and he covers her hand with his own.  “I’m fine.”  He smiles, and it’s _hungry_.  “I couldn’t feel pain right now if I tried.”

Emma bites her lip.  “You’re lying.”

“I’m also not stopping.”  He looks nearly desperate for her to agree.

She feels a grin of pure wickedness spread across her face, pushes him onto his back and then straddles him way below his injury.  “Let me.”

His breath hitches.  She feels him, hard as marble beneath her, and GOD.  She _wants_.  She slides down further and touches him through the fabric of his trousers and oh, the sound he makes.  Pleasure and pain and desire and _need_ , all wrapped into a moan that sounds like it comes from the bottom of his soul.  It lights up every single one of her nerve endings, and the look he gives her both tears her apart and sets her on fire, and she has never wanted anything this much.  In her entire.  Life.

 

His hands wander up her thighs until they anchor at her waist and then they squeeze her, hard--- and suddenly there is no more waiting.  The flames inside her begin to _roar_ , and she tears off his shirt, buttons exploding in every direction; and she leans forward, devours his mouth while she lifts her hips and struggles with his pants; and he can’t help because both of his hands are busy pulling up her t-shirt; and she has to let go for a moment so she can sit up to help him; and when she is finally, finally rid of the garment, she looks at him, looking up at her.

 

There are tears in his eyes.

 

“Emma,” he whispers.  Just that.  Nothing else.  Her name is just four letters on his lips, but it is everything.  Everything.

 _Everything_.

 

There are tears in her own.

She stills and looks at him and answers.  “Killian.”

 

And then _he_ roars, louder than the fire inside her, and he flips them around, blankets her body--- and somehow he gets both of their clothes off in seconds, amid the noise of seams tearing apart, and his hand reaches down to where she’s wet, wet and _aching_ , and then he enters her like push coming to shove, and oh god oh god _OH GOD_ \---

Nothing, nothing in Emma’s life has ever felt this good.

Has ever felt this right.

Has ever meant anything to her in light of the meaning of _this_.

 

He stills and pulls out to the very tip and looks at her like she is the meaning of his life.

Like she is the answer to every question.

Like she matters.

 _Like she matters_.

 

She can’t hold it in anymore, and tears spill down her cheeks, and her life, her entire miserable fucking life becomes one broken whisper.

“Please.”

 

He slams forward with force and her legs wrap around him and it’s connection and desire and defiance and fate,

it’s the exorcism of the past and the battle of the present and the promise of the future, all at once -

all at once -

it is deliverance, body and soul -

 

and Emma splinters and comes apart, feels the shackles tear off of her very existence,

and she screams, she _screams_ , hears the echo of her name

four letters again spilling from his lips

and her whole world explodes in a shower of sparks.

 

 

It takes her forever to catch her breath.

He’s been steadily, softly, wiping tears from her cheeks by the time she does.

“Emma,” he whispers.  She will never ever get tired of hearing him say her name.

“Emma,” he repeats, “Emma, I-----”

His voice breaks and he shakes his head.  He swallows hard and tries to go on, but nothing comes.

He’s tormenting himself, and it pains her to see it, so she simply cups his cheek and waits until his eyes focus on her.

And says, “I know.”

 

 

 

 

Hours and hours of wonderfully restful sleep later she wakes up to the small sliver of light above the curtains.  It’s impossible to tell the time of day in this room.

Sometime during the night he must have turned off the light on his bed stand, and now his whole body is wrapped tightly around her.

Emma turns in his arms.

 

“Killian,” she whispers and he groans.  Very slowly opens his eyes.  And smiles.  Tired and rumpled and purely happy.  She could sink into that smile and never ever need to come back up for air.

When he speaks, his voice is soft.  “Sleep OK, love?”

She nods, smiling.  “I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

His smile grows even wider and he closes his eyes, nuzzles her neck, and sighs.  “Me, too.”

“Killian,” she says, slightly louder this time.  “I’m going downstairs.”  He starts to sit up, but she stops him.  “You stay put.  Get some more sleep.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off.  “You know you need it.  Please stay here.”

His brow crinkles.

“Please,” she repeats.  “I’m going downstairs to see if Belle is up and ask her about----” it still feels odd to say it, “-----ask her about her magic.  I just didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone.  I’ll come get you later.”  She grins.  “With coffee.”

He shakes his head.  “I don’t deserve you.”

She cups his cheek.  “You deserve every last good thing in the world and then some.”

His eyes shine as he smiles his biggest, happiest smile, yet.  “So do you.”

 

 

 

Downstairs Belle and Ruby are sitting in a booth across from David, talking softly.  There’s not enough sunlight today to be any danger to a vampire.  Snow is behind the counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee.  When she sees Emma, she wordlessly pulls up another mug, fills it, and hands it to her with a nod.

Then she walks over to the booth and plunks down next to David as if they’ve never been anything other than a unit, and Emma bites her lip when she sees David flush.  He ducks his head to hide his smile, and Emma rolls her eyes along with every single other occupant of said booth.

 

She pulls up a chair and takes a long sip and listens to the pouring rain slam angrily against the windows.  

 

“So,” she finally says, “anything new?”

“Belle checked all the wards and protections.”  Ruby’s hand brushes a strand of Belle’s hair behind her ear, and Belle smiles.  “She’s been up since the crack of dawn.”

“Well, seeing as I’m usually awake during the night, it wasn’t exactly a hardship,” Belle replies.  “I’ll probably conk out sometime this afternoon, though.”  She raises her eyebrows in Ruby’s direction.  Ruby mumbles something that sounds a lot like _not without me, you don’t_.  And grins.

“Anyway,” Belle goes on, “everything seems to be holding.  At least as well as I can make it hold.”  She looks at Emma and Snow, almost in apology.  “I don’t have real magic.  Just a little affinity.”

 

“Don’t be sorry.”  Emma pats her arm.  “It’s more than any of us have.  Including me.  Especially me.  Speaking of which---”

“---you want to work on your own magic, don’t you.”  Emma raises an eyebrow, but Belle just mirrors her expression.  “It’s all over your face.  And it’s no trouble at all.  Whatever I can help you with, I’d be happy to.”

 

And then Snow clears her throat.  “I know this is a really sore subject, but we _have to_ call Ashley.  You all know it.  We are dealing with a mother of a vamp here.”  Snow looks at Emma in defiance.  As if she would have liked to have found a more diplomatic way of saying this, but can’t, and therefore won’t even try.  Emma watches David bite down hard on a grin.  He really has Snow’s number.  And he really likes that he does.

 

Emma is so busy ignoring David’s reaction, she nearly misses Belle’s whisper.  “I think you’re right.”

Snow’s eyebrows climb nearly to her hairline.  “You do?”

Belle shudders.  “I hate that you’re right.  But you’re right.  This vampire?  I’ve heard of him.  Back when I was still a part of a pack.  And if only half of the stories about him are true, he is very bad news.  Extremely bad news.”

“What stories?”

 

Belle shudders.  “I really don’t---  they’re ugly and vicious and I----”

Her voice cuts out and Ruby starts to rub her back before throwing Snow another one in a long line of dirty looks.  “I know you’re not doing it on purpose, and that all of this is actually important,” she says, “but you have an exceptional talent for making my girlfriend feel like absolute shit, and I’d like you to stop it.”  She squeezes Belle’s shoulder and whispers, “You OK, bookworm?”

Belle nods.  “Fine.  I can handle her.”  She turns back to Snow.  “He’s cruel and powerful and just -- not a creature to fuck with.”

 

If there had been any doubts whatsoever in Emma’s mind as to the truth of that statement, Belle’s use of an actual expletive would have removed them permanently.

 

“Go on.”  Snow’s voice is much softer than the words imply.

Belle pulls back her shoulders and takes a deep breath.  “Vampire pack hierarchy is intricate and complicated.  Not just the order within a given pack.  There’s a whole system around the packs themselves, from the most powerful down to the least.  I don’t have time to explain it all, but think of feudal Europe and you kind of get the picture.”

 

Emma’s jaw nearly drops.  It seems the things she doesn’t know could easily fill the Library of Congress.  And judging by Snow’s stunned expression, she’s not the only ignorant one in the room.

_More things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?_

She suddenly misses Killian with a sharp, acute stab of real pain.  Misses how he folds his fingers between hers and looks at her with eyes full of understanding.  And doesn’t blame her for not knowing jack squat.

 

“A few years ago, when I was first made, I became part of a pack that was pretty low on the totem pole.”  Belle’s voice is quiet, and she studies the table as if her story was written on it.  “And my sire---- my sire had… ambitions.  He had heard of a vampire that had just reached our shores.  A vampire without a pack, who went by the name of Liam. And there were whispers down the grapevine.”

She shudders again and Ruby wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Belle doesn’t move, and she does not react.

“They said this vampire had powers.  The power of persuasion.  The power of foresight.  They said he was stronger than any of us.  That he tortured his victims.  That he tortured his own kind if they disobeyed him or opposed him; or sometimes just for sport.  That he drank the blood of children.”  When she looks up there are tears in her eyes.  “You have to understand that this is taboo, even for vampires.  You do not go against your own unless there is ironclad proven cause, and _dire_ circumstances.  And you never, you _never_ feed on children.”

 

They wait in complete silence for her to go on.

 

“My sire-- he was enamoured with this new vampire.  He loved the stories of cruelty and strength.  And so one night he took me to go and see him.  He wanted to offer me in exchange for a seat at his table.  It turns out that that was the reason he made me.  The vampire was rumored to have a predilection for young girls.  I was a fledgling and he was my sire.  I had no choice but to go.”  Her voice nearly breaks, but she soldiers on.  “We never got there.  We were intercepted by a vampire Hunter.  The fiercest one on the Eastern seaboard.  A legend in her own right.”

 

“Ashley,” Emma breathes.

 

Belle nods.  “Cinderella, in the flesh.  My sire never stood a chance.  The only reason I got away was that I happened to be locked in the trunk of his car at the time.”

Ruby sputters, “You were _what_?  How did I not know that?” at the same time as Snow says, “How incredibly Sopranos of him.”

Belle shrugs.  “He wanted to make really sure I didn’t escape along the way.”

Ruby hugs her tightly as Snow shakes her head.  “Vampires with mob tactics.  Nobody has any standards anymore.”

They almost laugh.  In the middle of this harrowing story, they almost laugh.

Emma shakes her head at the madness that has become her life.  “How did you know it was Ashley?  I mean, Cinderella?  You were locked in a trunk -- could you see?”

Snow nods.  “And how exactly did you survive?  Ashley has never left a vamp any other way than a pile of ash.”  She cringes at her own words.  “Sorry.”

“It’s OK.  I’m getting used to your particular brand of rudeness.”  Belle smiles.  “It’s refreshingly direct, actually.”  Ruby rolls her eyes, and Belle ignores her, serious again.  “I know it was Cinderella because I heard my sire say her name.  It’s the only time I ever heard fear in his voice.  And she dusted him on top of the trunk.  I don’t think even she could have sensed that there was _another_ vampire right underneath him, separated only by a thin sheet of metal.  It must have felt like one vampire to her.  Either way, I was lucky.”

 

Snow shakes her head.  “Is that why you--- why you don’t, uhm, drink---”

“People?”  Belle smirks.  “Yeah.  I’d thought about running away from the day I was made.  I hated being a vampire.  I thought all that pack hierarchy stuff was ridiculous.  So when I managed to get out of the trunk, I _ran_.  I survived on rats the first few days, the occasional cow once I got out of the city.   Not feeding off people seemed a surefire way not to draw attention to myself.  And by that time I’d already heard of this bar.  And the bartender who offered a haven to all.”

She looks at Emma.  “So I made my way here and Killian took me in and saved my life.  And in return I protected the hell out of this place.  Not that that will ever be enough.  I owe him everything.”

 

Emma nods.  She knows the feeling.  Knows it well.

 

“OK.  That was a lot of information.  Anyone not scared yet should definitely be so now.”  Snow gets up.  “I have a suggestion.  We call Ashley and let her come down here, but not to the bar.  She can get a room at a motel several towns over.  I’m sure one of you can pick a good one -- something that’s not too far, but not so close that she can stumble across this place by accident, either.  I can go meet her there later.  Meanwhile, I’m going to go and see the Evil Queen.”

And everyone except Emma goes, “ _Who?_ ”

Snow quirks an eyebrow.  “We call her that, because she’s the prickliest Queen Bitch who ever walked the earth.  And because her Hunting methods cross the line into cruelty more often than is comfortable - even for us.  Woman was born without a shred of mercy.”  Snow shrugs.  “But she’s a veritable fount of knowledge and information when it comes to rumor and whispers and signs.  And she’s also the Blacksmith’s wife.”  She looks at Emma.  “As you may recall, he owes me a favor.  I’m going to cash it in on her.”

Emma’s jaw drops.  “And he still gave you weapons?”

Snow grins.  “It was a big favor.”

“I can’t even imagine.  Did you save his life?”

Snow’s grin grows wicked.  “Nah.  Saved hers.”

 

Emma sputters.  Of all the impossible things to believe before breakfast.

 

“She’s been up near Niagara Falls this whole time, chasing what sounds like your Wild Hunt.”  Snow shakes her head.  “Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d say, ever.”  She laughs.  “You know, I knew my life would be stranger than most the moment I decided to become a Hunter, but this is insane.”

Emma rolls her eyes in commiseration.

“She’s back now,” Snow goes on.  “I just got a text from her this morning.  And it’s time I paid her a visit.  Especially since her husband sent me on a fucking wild goose chase of ‘leads’ which turned out to be nothing but dead ends, and don’t think we won’t have words about _that_.”

Emma grins.  She can picture it.  And put all the money in the world on Snow.

Who turns to David.  “You could come with me.”

David chokes.  “Because the thing that’s been missing from my life is a Hunter with methods too cruel for other _Hunters_?”

Snow laughs out loud.  “No, idiot,” she says fondly.  “Because you’re smart and you know more about all of this than I do.”  Her voice softens.  “And you’ll be perfectly safe with me.  I promise.”

David blushes his particular shade of fire-engine red and everyone but Snow suddenly becomes extremely interested in the lamp hanging over the booth.

“Fine,” he mumbles and gets up himself.  “I guess I’ll go with you.”

“‘Atta boy,” Snow grins, and then actually slaps him on the butt as he passes.

David shoves her in turn.  “You can stop with the canine commands any time now.”

They hear Snow’s laughter all the way to the parking lot.

 

Ruby buries her head in her hands.  “Oh _god_ \-- they’re disgusting.  I’d tell them to get a room, but it seems they already did that.”  Innuendo drips from every word, and Emma raises an eyebrow.

“You should talk, Miss Public Display of Indecency.”

All three of them burst out laughing, and once again it buoys something inside Emma.  Something which used to be weighed down by lead.

 

“ _Fine_.”  Ruby gets up.  “You two do your magic.  I’ll go upstairs and see if Killian has anything which can be transformed into breakfast.  And by that I mean breakfast for people who don’t drink hemoglobin.”  She gives Belle a smacking kiss.  “Because I know he’s got _you_ covered.”

“GO.”  Belle nearly shoves Ruby out of the booth.  And then turns to Emma.  “So.  Tell me about your magic.  Tell me everything.”

 

 

 

 

“Concentrate again.  Reach down deep inside you.  Try to feel your energy.”

 

It’s more than two hours later and Emma is near tears.

Nothing they have done, nothing they have tried, is working.  Not a single ember has sparked to life.  Emma’s hands remain muscle and tendon and calloused skin.  There has been no inkling of the pull whatsoever.

 

“I fucking _can’t_.”  She’s yelling at Belle and can’t stop herself.  “I can’t feel a thing!  There is nothing inside me!”

“Emma.”  Belle’s voice is quiet empathy.  “Emma, calm down.”

“I can’t calm down!  There is no energy, there’s no goddamn pull, and I am a fluke!”

Emma buries her face in her unresponsive hands and groans.

 

“I take it things are not going that well?"  Killian’s voice comes from the direction of the stock room.  Emma drops her hands and glares at him and Ruby, standing in the doorway.

Ruby raises an eyebrow.  “Well, she’s still yelling.  How bad could it be?”

Emma shakes her head.  “Belle, I’m really sorry.  I just, i can’t----”

And then Killian simply walks over and wraps his arms around her.  And Emma lets him, in plain sight of Belle and Ruby.  Both of whom grin identical wicked grins when she looks at them over his shoulder.  She doesn’t care.  All she feels is exhausted.

 

“You all right, love?”  Killian’s quiet voice brings her back to the present.

“What I am is fucking useless.”  She can’t help it.  She is beyond frustration.

“Come and eat something.”  He points towards the stairs.  “Ruby managed to make a ridiculous quantity of excellent nosh.”

“I am a woman of many talents.”  Ruby smiles, takes Belle’s hand and starts to pull her towards the apartment.  “Even if the love of my life will never enjoy my world famous tarragon chicken.”

 

Killian’s fingers wind into Emma’s hair.  “You’ve had a cruelly hard couple of days, love.  I’m amazed you’re even upright.  Never mind channeling unfamiliar energy.”

She leans her head into his chest and wonders how he does it.  How he manages to make her feel better no matter what.  He tilts her chin up and smiles at her, and his mouth brushes her cheek as he bends his head to her ear.  “Don’t force it.  It will come.”

His hand goes back to gently rubbing her neck and Emma can feel shivers run down her spine.  She tilts her head and looks up, and his lips slowly cover hers, soft and warm and wonderful.

When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against hers.  “Let’s go eat,” he whispers.  “And then we’ll figure it out.”

 

 

Upstairs the kitchen table is laden with food.  There’s a dish of steaming hot potatoes au gratin, and a large bowl of green beans with bacon, and plates and napkins and glasses and flatware.

“In case you were wondering,” with a flourish Ruby pulls the lid off the casserole at the center, “this _is_ my world famous tarragon chicken.  Seeing as it’s past lunchtime, i thought I’d make us some real food.”

It looks amazing.  Emma’s stomach rumbles and she realizes that she can’t remember her last meal.  

Here they are, getting ready for the fight of their lives - and yet somehow there’s food and joy and togetherness.  Belle sits down, and Ruby takes warm bread out of the oven, and the semblance of normal becomes nearly overwhelming.

 

Maybe there are all kinds of ‘home’.

 

Killian kisses her cheek and gives her a quick hug, and then they all sit down at the table and dig in.

Belle sips blood from a glass with a straw, and Killian’s left hand rests on Emma’s knee, his thumb gently rubbing her thigh in slightly spastic spurts, and Ruby starts in on the story of how she tried to seduce Belle between the library stacks the very first time she saw her---

and at that moment the apartment door bangs open.

 

Snow and David burst into the room and the expression on Snow’s face makes Emma’s breath catch.   She takes Killian’s hand and squares her shoulders.

Snow throws down her weapons bag - something she has not been without since the previous night - and takes a deep breath.

“I think we found out what the price is,” she says without preamble.  David just nods.

“The price for what?”  Killian’s voice is calm and quiet.

“The price for using the dagger to kill the Dark One.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are lovely and wonderful, each and every single one of you.  
> And you make this whole journey worthwhile.  
> <3


	11. Chapter 11

  
  


  
  


Killian feels Emma’s hand tighten around his, and something heavy and cold spreads out from the pit of his stomach, and his life starts to flash before his eyes.

Not his whole life.  His time with Emma.

  
  


There are so many images.  

  
  


Emma walking into his bar that very first night with a hurt shoulder.  The way she couldn’t even raise her hand to drink. The way she bit down on her groan when she accidently tried.

The way she smiled at him when she returned the thermos.  A smile so much more grateful than she probably intended.

Finding her half frozen on the couch.  Asleep across a truck bench seat with his head in her lap.  Dreaming something that he can’t remember, but made him wake up happy.  Waking up happy next to her every morning since.

Emma squeezing a rubber ball while her fucking _blood_ ran into a bag intended for him.

Her face when she told Ashley to let him go.  Her face as she got ready to leap in front of Snow’s crossbow to save David.  Her face as she just barely managed to walk through the bar doors, blood all down her front, half-paralyzed already, and dying.  
Dying.

  
  


Her face the night before, when she looked at him and said his name and made him feel human again for the first time in a century.  Completely human.

Completely hers.

  
  


He looks up at Snow and waits for her to go on, but in his mind he knows.

He knows.

This news of the dagger will mean that somebody will have to make the hard choice, and that somebody will be him.

And he will lose everything, everything, because that is what his life has been, what his destiny is, what his fate wills it to be: To lose all the people near and dear to him.  That is his legacy.

  
  


Emma’s hand squeezes his and it hurts so much in the depths of his soul, it takes his breath away.

He can’t think, can’t let himself feel, can only look at Snow, because his head has been under this guillotine forever, _forever_ , and if it is to be the end of him, he’d rather just release the blade.

  
  


Snow meets his eyes, her face carefully blank.  “There are two theories of what happens when you use the dagger.  One of them says that you perish yourself.” He is oddly glad that Snow does not use the word ‘die’.  “That one is the best case scenario.”

Belle and Ruby both gasp, and Emma next to him stiffens like a board.  He still can’t look at her. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to do what needs to be done if he looks at her.

“The other one is worse,” Snow goes on.  “It says that if you kill the Dark One with the dagger, you become him.”

  
  


“ _What?_ ”  The word echoes in three different voices around him, followed by breathless exclamations of _A human can’t just become a demon_ , and _I have never heard of such a thing_ , and _Where does your source get their information?_   They drift around him, these phrases, along with the good intentions of all the people in this room who are trying to save him.  When it’s so far past that.

  
  


Killian gently pries his hand from Emma’s, gets up and quietly leaves the apartment.

  
  


He’s pouring himself a shot of rum behind the bar counter when Emma comes in and puts her hand on his arm and forces him to turn around.

And look at her.

Pain flares in his chest like a burning javelin straight through his heart, because he will have to convince her to break his curse, to let him go. He will have to leave her behind, and how can he, _how can he possibly_ , when she’s standing there, looking at him like he _matters_?

  
  


“Killian.”  Her voice is soft and her green eyes are large and clear, and they pierce his armor just like they did that very first night.  

“Killian, don’t.”  She shakes her head.  “I know what you’re thinking and I need you to stop it.”

He swallows hard and girds himself for battle.  “And what am I thinking?”

She takes his hand again, and part of him wants to hold on to it forever, and part of him wants to pull it out of her grasp.  “You’re right back at square one, aren’t you. You think we have to break your curse.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.  “It’s all over your face.” She clears her throat and her eyes burn into his.

“Now, I want you to listen to me.  I want you to fucking _hear_ me.”  Her grip around his hand tightens.  “I don’t care what Snow just said about the dagger.  I don’t care what Belle said about the demon. I don’t care if Liam is fucking _channeling_ the Dark One.  I don’t care how much the deck is stacked against us, I don’t care how powerful our enemies are, I don’t care if we have to take on Evil itself.”  Her grip becomes painful. “We are not sacrificing you. Do you hear me? We are not fucking _ending_ you on the off chance that it will give us some small advantage.  It is not an option. Do I make myself clear?”

  
  


God, she’s magnificent in her fury.  She is rage and vengeance and wrath and _hope_ , and oh, how he loves her.  Inside this small, damaged, broken heart of his, he loves her with everything he has.

  
  


“Emma.”  Her name rolls off his lips like they were made to say nothing but those four letters.  He can’t find his voice, has to go on in a whisper. “Emma, you know it’s the only way.”

“Fuck you it is.”  Her gaze is pure steel, but now there are tears in her eyes.  

  
  


He should have known.  He should have known the moment she walked into his bar and changed his life forever, that he wouldn’t get to keep this.  Wouldn’t get to keep her.

He knows he has to convince her to let him go, but it feels like his soul is splintering apart.  And it is in part because he has never wanted anything as much as he wants to spend his life with Emma - eternity, if possible - but it is also because breaking his curse is going to hurt _her_.

 _That’s_ what’s breaking his heart.

  
  


He takes her hand and walks them into his office and they sit down on the couch where it all began.  

  
  


He can still hear her screaming inside her paralyzed body, fighting herself and her fate and her world of straight lines between Good and Evil. Can feel her head on his chest and her hand in his as he woke up in utter confusion and pain.  Can see her face as she entered after his bout with the full moon, tired and hesitant and so full of empathy. After she spent the night, the whole goddamn night, outside of this door.

  
  


“Love,” he says, and then his voice falters.  He can feel tears rising, and he is helpless before it.

He tries again.  “Please. You heard Snow.  We cannot afford to use the dagger.  What if it does turn the wielder into the Dark One?  A Dark One not hampered by having his power tied into my curse?  A Dark One at _full strength_?”

He shudders and Emma shakes her head.  “We don’t know that will happen.” Her voice is a whisper he can barely hear.  “It’s just conjecture.”

“Emma.”  He lifts her chin, makes her look straight at him.  “You know and I know the risk is too great.” Her eyes are so green and so clear and so fierce and determined.  It feels like he has belonged to her, body and soul, since the dawn of time.

“We have to do this, my love, and we have to do it now.”

  
  


He doesn’t realize that he has said _my_ , until he sees her face change.

  
  


Her eyes grow large and round and somehow both soft and absolutely _furious_.  She yanks her chin out of his grasp and leans back to look at him, and her face, her demeanor, her entire posture, all change.  Become larger than life and ferocious as vengeance, and the absolute iron resolve in the way she straightens her spine and draws back her shoulders and takes a deep breath are the most amazing thing he has ever seen.

God, he loves her so fucking much.

  
  


“I am not losing you.”  Her hands fist into his shirtfront and pull him close.

When she goes on, her voice cracks and breaks across the words, but loses nothing of its conviction.  “I am not losing you, not today, not tomorrow, not ever, do you hear me?”

And then she pulls him close and her lips come crashing down on his, and again it is everything, everything, _everything_ \-- 

just like it was the first time he kissed her when she gave of herself,

and he’s burning

burning---

  
  


How can he stay strong in the face of this?

  
  


She pulls back to look at him, eyes shiny and soft, and her voice drops to a whisper.  

“Killian---”  She shakes her head.  “Killian, I---”

  
  
  


And then they hear the door to the bar slam open with force.  They look at each other, instantly alert, adrenaline spiking, and quietly make their way to the main room.

It is empty.

And yet Killian can feel a presence, sinister, treacherous; putting every single one of his nerve endings on edge.  He’s about to signal Emma to hang back and wait when they are both suddenly flung across the bar room.

His back collides hard with the wall and pain, real pain, shoots up his side.  He can’t move. Cannot see Emma, can only sense her, spreadeagled next to him. Just as immobile.  He can feel his vision both blur and sharpen and he knows his eyes have gone red. Fear spreads through his paralyzed limbs like lead.

  
  


And before them, still in his immaculate three-piece-suit and the goddamn fedora, stands Liam.

Smiling.

  
  


He lifts his eyes and looks around the room.  “Wards.” His voice sounds amused. “Oh, Killian.  How quaint.” The runes Belle has carved along the door frame and the ceiling start to glow red like flames,  dissolve into black smoke and then gently descend like fine flaking soot.

  
  


Emma manages a hiss.  Liam raises one eyebrow and Emma’s hiss cuts off in the middle, and he can’t breathe for a moment.  Not until he hears Emma exhale.

  
  


“How very fortuitous to find you both here, alone.”  Liam turns back to him, and the fear becomes _panic_.  “You are just the people I wanted to talk to.”

Killian strains and strains, but none of his muscles move even one iota.

Liam laughs.  “Oh, stop it, little brother.  You know you can’t struggle your way out of this.”  He takes another step towards them, his eyes now focused on Emma.  “I never get tired of seeing a Hunter so--- open.” He licks his bottom lip and Killian can hear a gurgling groan come from Emma and his vision nearly fades with the strain of trying to break Liam’s hold.

  
  


There’s a gasp from the stock room doorway and Killian looks over to see Snow and David, staring at them, and Liam turns almost painfully slowly and lifts his hand.

Both of them fly into the wall on the far side of the bar, their heads smacking hard into concrete, and collapse in a heap on the floor, unmoving.

  
  


Inside Killian’s head a voice starts to scream, echoed by a snarl, and then a large, blurry brown shape launches at Liam, the snarl eruptíng into a menacing growl.

Liam lazily lifts his left hand and the growl becomes a whimper as the wolf that is Ruby simply drops out of mid-air and starts to cower and whine.

“Ahhh.”  Liam’s voice is as sweet as hemlock, and just as deadly.  “Canis Lupus. I should have known.” He turns from the prostrate, whimpering wolf to the doorway.  “You might as well come in, fledgling. Everybody else is here.” And with another flick of his hand, he throws Belle against the wall above David and Snow.

“I suppose it was too much to ask to get you two alone,” he smiles.  “In which case we’ll just have words with the entire party present.”

  
  


And then Killian feels it: His jaw unlocks.

  
  


“Let them go.”  He grinds out. “This has nothing to do with them.  All of this is between you and me.”

He can hear Emma try to speak and fail.  It sounds like she’s muzzled; and he cannot recall ever having been this afraid.

Liam raises an eyebrow.  “But it’s you who dragged them into this.  They’re all part of it now.”

  
  


And there it is.

His greatest fear, spoken aloud.  He has done this to them. He will be their undoing.

They will be punished simply for being on his side.

He struggles once more against the hold, his muscles and tendons straining until pain is all he can feel, but to no avail.  He may be able to speak, but that is all there is.

The rest of him is pinned to a wall, and of no use to anyone.

  
  


Liam smiles his terrifying smile again, licking his lips, and by all that’s twisted and rotten - he is _enjoying_ himself.

He’s holding court.

  
  


“Now, little brother,” his eyes burn into Killian’s, “let’s talk about you.”

Every single muscle in Killian’s body contracts, even though they’re still frozen, and for a moment it feels like his very bones are about to break.

“Don’t call me that,” he grinds out.  “You are not my brother.” Of all the useless things to say.

Liam looks at him in part amusement and part annoyance.  “Oh, but I am.”

  
  


Killian can feel rage flood his panic.  “Liam died more than a century ago,” he spits.  “Bitten and broken and desecrated by your kind. They left him on a dirty floor with his throat torn out, as if he was nothing.  _NOTHING!_ ”  He can hear his voice climb in pitch and volume, but he doesn’t care.  “Don’t you _dare_ talk about him! He died because I didn’t go with him and couldn’t help him and I fucking _buried_ him in an unmarked vegetable patch!”

  
  


He can hear Emma’s breath hitch next to him, and spends a moment thinking of what fate may have in store for her as well.  The demise of another Hunter at the end of a vampire’s fangs and him helpless to stop it and the rage takes over, infuses his useless limbs with heat until he can feel himself _vibrate_.

“You don’t get to talk about him as if there’s any part of him left inside of you, you don’t get to use his name as if it still belonged to you. _MY BROTHER IS DEAD AND YOU ARE NOT HIM_.”

He is screaming now, in his impotent fury.

  
  


And Liam smiles again.

Chilling and ghastly and absolutely self-satisfied.

  
  


“Oh, this is interesting,” he purrs, and Killian feels dread such as he has never known run like ice down his spine.  Dread, and premonition.

“I thought you knew.  I really did.” Liam takes another step towards Killian, runs his finger across his throat in a gesture both threatening and obscenely intimate, and taps his index finger against Killian’s pulse point.

Taps the rhythm of his heartbeat, fast and thready.

_ThumpThump._

_ThumpThump._

_ThumpThump._

  
  


“My dear, sweet, innocent brother.”  When Liam speaks, his voice is low, and full of smug joy, like he’s about to divulge a delicious secret.  “When I went after the vampires that night, I didn’t go to fight them.” He smiles. “I went there to join them.”

  
  


And everything.

Stops.

  
  
  
  
  


Out of the corner of her eye, Emma can see Killian slump, even pinned as he is to the goddamn wall, as if every string that ever held him upright had been clipped all at once.

She can do nothing but watch, helpless and useless, as Liam takes a step back and looks around at all of them.

Snow and David still in an unconscious heap on the floor.

The wolf, cowering in the corner, whining softly.

Belle against the wall, her eyes large and round and full of tears. 

And finally Emma herself, as she struggles to breathe.

  
  


“I think it’s time,” Liam whispers, and lifts his hand.  Belle drops from the wall like a stone and collapses in a heap right next to David and Snow, unmoving.

The wolf yelps once, a pitiful sound, and then all four of its legs give out and it crumples to the floor, motionless.

Liam turns back to her, and it suddenly feels like a cold hand wrapping around her throat, purposeful and merciless, and the fear she feels for herself is nothing compared to the terror she feels for Killian, as his  head is slammed back against the concrete once, twice, three times, until he, too, falls to the floor just a huddled shape.

Her vision goes grey and she fights to stay conscious, but she’s losing, she losing; and the last thing she sees is Liam’s hand fisting into Killian’s hair and dragging his limp body towards the door.

From far, far away she can feel herself slide down the wall and connect with the floor, and then everything.

Stops.

  
  
  
  


When Emma comes to, she can’t move for a long, terrifying moment, and the relief when she is finally able to lift her hand and wipe her face is staggering.  She sits up slowly and looks around.

Everyone is completely still.

The silence is deafening.

  
  


_I went there to join them._

_Don’t think._  
_Don’t think._  
_Don’t._

  
  


Getting up is a much more laborious process than she ever thought possible, and she doesn’t quite make it.  Instead she crawls on her hands and knees towards the wolf and puts her hand on its neck.

There is a pulse.  And soft, shallow breathing.

She makes her way across to the crumpled forms on the opposite side of the room, and when she finds them all breathing, tears spring to her eyes.

  
  


But she can’t wake them up.

  
  


She shakes Snow and David until she’s afraid their heads will separate from their necks, and nothing happens.  Minutes pass, precious minutes, and she doesn’t know how long she’s been unconscious, and she doesn’t know where Liam took Killian, and the voice inside her head is screaming at her to go after him, _now_ , but she can’t leave them here, out like snuffed candles.

  
  


Finally, finally, Belle groans and opens her eyes.

Looks at Emma in confusion until she bolts upright and almost yells, “Ruby!”

  
  


Emma puts a hand on her shoulder.  “Slow down. She’s alive. They all are.”  A note of panic creeps into her voice. “But I can’t---- they’re all unconscious.  And Ruby’s still a wolf.”

Belle shakes her head to clear it.  “How are you awake? How am I?”

“I don’t know.”

Belle looks around.  “Where is Killian?”

“Liam took him.”  Emma’s voice breaks on the last word, and more tears spring to her eyes.  She is barely holding it together, and she hates herself for being so weak.  “I don’t know where they went. I don’t know how long we’ve been out. I don’t know what they’re doing--- what they’re doing----”  Her voice somersaults and cuts out and Belle takes her hand. Her skin is cool, and it’s oddly comforting.

“Breathe, Emma.  Breathe.”

Emma tries and manages a few deep breaths.  Barely.

“I think it’s magic.”  Belle looks up at Emma.  “I think we’re awake because our magic helped us, or shielded us, or something like that.”

Emma shakes her head.  “You know my magic is barely there and fucking useless.”  Her voice flips again. She can’t find her own center inside her mounting panic.

Inside the voice in her head, screaming _run run RUN_.

  
  


“Stop it.  It’s the only explanation that makes sense, and you have magic, whether you believe it or not, so get with the fucking program and believe it.”

If Belle had slapped her in the face, Emma could not have been more surprised.  This is a completely different person from the gentle librarian. Belle’s eyes are on fire.  And brooking no argument.

Emma almost laughs.

  
  


“Fine,” she says.  “You win. Now - do you think you can get all these people to come around by yourself?  Because I really have to--- I _have to_ \----”

“Where are you going to go?”  Belle doesn’t tell Emma to hold on, or wait, or not to go, and Emma is so grateful she nearly hugs her.

“I’m going to go to the mansion where we killed the Chimera.  It’s just a hunch, but---”

“Trust your instincts.”  Belle squeezes her hand, and it’s comforting and encouraging and the tears recede.

“You’re not going to stop me?”

Belle smiles.  “If it were Ruby, hell or high water couldn’t stop me from going after her.”

“Thank you,” Emma whispers, and Belle nods.  

Then she looks around the room.  “I’ll get them up, and then we’ll come after you.  And I will call Ashley and see where she is.” Belle shudders.  “Oh god. I’m actually going to talk to Cinderella. Apparently today _is_ the day that hell freezes over.”

“You know what?" Emma gets up.  "I’m going to take that as a good sign.  Because that means it’s the day when we get to do the impossible.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my lovely ones -- the end is in sight.  
> Final Battle clouds are brewing on the horizon.


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

The drive to the mansion is a blur.

 

 _IWentThereToJoinThem_ rings in her ears in an endless loop, and her heart _quails_ at it, because of all the things she thought she had to stop from breaking Killian, she never once imagined this.

How had she never imagined this?  
Liam had come into the library, just walked on in and baited them all, and yet she had completely forgotten about him by morning, in the face of magic and daggers and curses and _oh god_ \----

 

All this time she spent, thinking of ways to protect Killian from physical harm.  All this goddamn time.  Only to have Liam come in _again_ , and rip Killian’s soul to shreds with one fucking sentence, and she never saw it coming, never---

This is her fault.  She should have known.

This, _this_ is what will break him.

 

When it’s the oldest trick in the book.

 

Now that Emma has had a moment to think, she sees the revelation for what it is: a battle tactic, pure and simple.  _Shatter your opponent._

Because she does not believe for a second that Liam was speaking the truth.  Little as she may know about the inner workings of vampire packs, one fact she does know for sure: They are very careful in choosing who to turn.  And they certainly do not do it by drinking from a victim as if he were an open bar and then ripping out his throat for good measure.

Liam’s entire history as a vampire - the lack of a pack, the torturing of his own kind, the connection with the Dark One - all of these speak to the absolute fury of a Hunter turned against his will.  And most likely by accident.

And from the way the fight simply went out of Killian’s body as if it had been _ripped_ from him---- he believed it.  Every word.

 

All Emma can see is Killian’s face, in his eyes a war between sadness and hope.  All she can hear is his voice as he calls her ‘my love’.

 _My love_.

  


 

 

When she gets to the bottom of the hill where they parked David’s truck what feels like a century ago, she realizes all the things she should have done back at the bar.  And didn’t.

She should have stayed and helped Belle wake the others.

She should have made a plan.

Come out here with backup, from a position of strength.

Fuck - she should have at least raided Snow’s weapons trunk.

 

But it’s too late to turn back.

 

Emma hooks her razor wire whip to her side and her katana across her back.  They have both been soaked in Dead Man’s Blood and Holy Water, for whatever little it’s worth.  After all, Liam burned wards carved into concrete walls with the flick of a wrist, and that was not even his most impressive feat.

But Emma will take all the help she can get.

 

The very first thing she notices are several lit windows, and it does not surprise her nearly as much as expected.  Her hunch was right.  She knows it even without peeking inside.  Not that she could.  These  windows are all on the upper floor, in the old ballroom where they bested the beast.

It’s both ironic and fitting that this is the place where she is likely to meet her demise.

She no longer cares about that.

But she does take a moment to text Belle the word _mansion_.  Then she locks her phone in the car, takes a deep breath, tries to center herself, and slowly and quietly makes her way up the hill.

  


 

 

She is not at all prepared for what she finds inside.

The first thing she notices is the heavy tang of iron in the air.

Blood.  
Lots of it.

 

Emma has crept up the back stairs and is pressed against the wall next to the far door of the ballroom, with no way to look inside without giving herself away.  All she can smell is blood.

Her instincts kick into overdrive for a few long moments, and she has to run her hand across the razor wire at her hip and let the sting of ripped skin bring her back to the present.

 

 _Breathe_.

 

And then she hears an unfamiliar voice.  “A little more I think, dearie.”  It’s soft and strangely chipper, and it doesn’t sound human at all.  It sounds as if someone read about what humans sound like and then fashioned a means of vocalization from that.  “We have a lot of sigils to draw.”

“As you wish,” comes a second voice, and it’s unmistakably Liam.

And then comes a wail of pure pain, and every single muscle and tendon inside Emma contracts.  Oh god.

 

_Breathe.  Close your eyes.  Center yourself._

 

The wail becomes a scream.  Emma’s brain nearly short-circuits.  Nearly.

 

_Breathe.  And find a vantage point._

 

Emma opens her eyes, turns towards the open doorway, and slowly, slowly sinks down on her knees.  There are neither holes in the walls nor decor to conceal her, so Emma goes with her only option: Stealing a glance from ground level.

People rarely look at the floor when checking for intruders.

It takes her more than a minute to stretch herself across the flagstones and move into position, and when she finally, finally gets her first glimpse at the ballroom, it’s-----

 

It takes Emma every single ounce of willpower not to react and give herself away.

Every single one.

 

The room is bathed in yellow light because all of the wall sconces are lit.  Even the ones without lightbulbs.

Killian is bound to a chair at the center of the room, his left arm pulled tightly behind his back, forcing him to sit unnaturally upright.  It looks painful.

Liam is standing on his right, holding a dagger with a wickedly curved blade.

 

_The dagger._

 

The dagger whose tip is currently buried in the crook of Killian’s elbow.  They are _bleeding_ him.

Red runs down the curved blade in rivulets, dripping into a bowl on the floor.  Every time the blood flow gets sluggish, Liam twists the tip and Killian screams.

On their left is a strange figure in a dark, hooded cloak, just quietly standing there, observing.  It looks menacing and reptilian, even mostly concealed, and Emma’s fear ratchets up while she tries to keep her instincts in check.

Bites her lip until she can taste her own iron.

 

Killian’s screams get weaker each time Liam twists the blade, until in the end they’re no more than a whimper.  When Liam finally pulls the dagger from his arm, the bowl is full and Killian as pale as a ghost.  His head falls back and he no longer moves.  Emma can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

 

The hooded figure takes a step forward and opens his palm and the dagger suddenly appears in it.  Liam looks just as surprised as Emma feels.  The dagger fits into the Dark One’s hand as if it were an extension of his body, the way to his will.  He lifts it and starts to walk a slow circle around Killian, the dagger pointed towards the floor, and his blood, _his blood_ \----

It rises from the bowl like a mockery of life-force inverted, forms a glittering red arc through the air until it connects with the jagged blade and flows down; forms a stream of red that follows in the Dark One’s footsteps to form a perfect line.

A perfect circle around Killian.

 

“Out,” the Dark One hisses once he’s done, and Liam flinches at the tone of his voice.  It is sinister now, and tonelessly sibilant, and yet full of eager anticipation.  Liam exits the circle with two hurried steps, and Emma can tell from his posture that his easy assurance is melting away.  Maybe it is only now occurring to Liam that there might be a price for him to pay as well.

 

The Dark One steps into the circle and runs a scaly finger down Killian’s throat.  Emma’s heartbeat starts to pound hard between her temples as he casually repeats the motion down Killian’s neck with the dagger, leaving a thin trail of red in its wake.  Killian doesn’t make a sound.

The Dark One straightens back up and the blood once again comes arcing, from the bowl to the tip of the blade; and then he starts to move his hand in a complicated pattern as a rune appears on the stone floor.

 

Killian’s head lifts up slowly, his face white as chalk and devoid of expression.  He looks around without seeing, without the faintest interest in his own fate, his eyes empty and distant, his jaw gone slack.  Emma has Hunted many a creature, has watched the light fade from so many eyes, but not even in death did they look this defeated.  She has never seen surrender like this.

 

The Dark One’s hand rises again to paint the next symbol.

And Emma’s instincts suddenly come on harder and stronger than ever before, blotting out all reason, all rational thought, every last sense of caution and self-preservation until all she knows, all she _is_ , is _attack_ , _neutralize_ , _eradicate_ \-- and with a roar she jumps up, draws out her whip and snaps her wrist outwards.

 

The razor wire unspools with deadly precision as Emma brings her left in for a two-handed grip, it draws a perfect line towards the Dark One’s neck, but the moment before it can wrap around it, Liam appears.  And snatches the wire out of the air.

It twists around his hand and Emma screams.  And then _pulls_.  The top of Liam’s hand slices off, clean across the middle, and for a moment all three of them stop and stare at where Liam’s fingers were just a second ago. Emma’s hand reaches back for the hilt of her katana, but with a deafening bellow Liam looks up and the next thing she knows she is hurled against the wall behind her.  
The same wall against which the Chimera had flung her.

And again she is immobile with her instincts still _roiling_ , at absolute war with her forced paralysis, and the battle between the two makes her vision go grey.

 

“You.”  Liam is seething.  “ _Hunter_.”  The word sounds like a curse in itself.  “I will make torturing you my favorite pastime for _years_.  I will make you forget the days when you didn’t feel pain.”

The Dark One lifts his hand.  “Not yet, dearie.”  His voice sounds like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.  “We have a few things to take care of first.”

And then he turns to Killian.  Bends down and looks him straight in the eye.  “Now pay attention,” he says, as if lecturing a slow-witted child.  “This is going to be rather complex.”

With that he tears Killian’s shirt open.  The dagger tip breaks his skin as the Dark One brings it down almost gently and draws a sigil on Killian’s chest.  In his own blood.

 

And then, finally.  Finally.

Emma can feel the pull as it starts.

 

And gathers momentum.  This is not just a pull.

It’s a tidal wave crashing, it’s a fountain bursting, it is pressure exploding.  It comes on like a freight train, blazing fiery paths along every last nerve, neurons sparking like firecrackers, and it erupts like bolts of lightning from both of her hands, white jet streams of light shooting clear across the room.  One at Liam and one at the Dark One, and they hit each in the dead center of the chest. 

 

Liam stumbles backwards and Emma’s paralysis lifts as she slides down the wall, her hands still channeling magic while the Dark One bends over and nearly folds in half.

And then straightens back up.  And for the first time Emma gets a look at his face.  Under his hood his skin is greenish and leathery and covered with gold flecks.

 

He is _smiling_.

He raises both hands and Emma’s magic starts to sputter.  She can feel the energy stutter within her, feel it being pulled outwards, no longer focused, but torn and stretched into too many directions.  She can feel it fizzle and spurt, losing intent and control, and the mayhem makes her sway as she desperately fights to harness these new and powerful forces inside her.  She plants her feet firmly and tries to stay upright, and at that moment, that very moment, Emma hears the familiar twang of bolts being loosed.

 

They are here.

All of them.

 

The Dark One spins around, three bolts protruding from his back, and Snow drops the crossbow, draws a wicked-looking blade.  She and David attack, shoulder to shoulder, their movements in almost perfect sync.

As Ashley hurls herself past them and flings out her own whip with a primal scream, and it wraps around Liam’s neck in a perfect loop.

As Belle runs towards Emma, her fingertips sparking; and the sparks sink down into Emma’s bolts of light.  She feels her power return with a rush, buoyed by Belle’s magic, and she brings her hands together to attack the Dark One with both streams at once.

As Ruby growls and launches herself up with a powerful leap, shifts into a wolf _in mid-air_ , and tackles Liam clean to the ground.

As Snow’s sword connects with the Dark One’s chest and slices across it, cuts through the cloak and the leather beneath it, and David breaks away, runs over to Killian, and cuts the ropes binding him with two precise swipes.

 

But then.

 

The wolf is thrown backwards, down the length of the ballroom, and slams into the far wall with an ominous crack.  Changes back into Ruby as it falls to the ground, and there she remains, unmoving, unconscious.  Belle screams.

Killian tries to get up and goes down hard on his knees, barely catches himself on arms shaking like leaves.

The collar of Liam’s shirt is made from more than cotton, and it holds the wire, does not let it cut, and he flings out one hand and hurls Ashley against the wall.  Emma can hear the breath knocked from her lungs with a powerful whoosh, but Ashley never lets go of the handle of her whip.

Snow’s blade is  ripped from her hands, embeds itself to the hilt into David’s right shoulder, and David falls backwards, almost in slow motion, until his head bangs loudly against the flagstones.  Unmoving.  Unconscious.

Belle’s magic now sparks in irregular spurts, and Emma’s bolts grow weaker and weaker _and weaker_ \---

 

And a burst of blood-red light erupts from each one of the Dark One’s hands.

The left beam connects with Liam and _reverses_ , draws power _from_ the vampire, while the right one aims straight at Emma and Belle.

 

And then the streams of magic _clash_.

 

Emma screams as the recoil hits her full-force--

pain shoots up her arms, nearly makes her vomit---

while she’s fighting, she’s fighting to keep her magic flowing---

the air crackling and popping, charged with energy---

and it’s screaming and yelling and snapping and _bedlam_ \---

 

And at the center of it all, Killian finally looks up.

  
  


 

Everything goes strangely quiet inside his head.

 

He can see Emma and Belle and their magic, still fighting the Dark One but getting weaker, his blood-red stream of magic getting blacker and blacker and stronger and stronger---

wrapping like tendrils of Evil around the white light from Emma and the gold sparks from Belle; suffusing them, tainting them, leeching the color until they start to go grey---

can see Emma’s face, twisted in pain and extreme concentration, sweat on her forehead, tears in her eyes, as she tries to stay upright on legs trembling with exertion---

can see Snow shielding David with the whole of her body, trying to wake him, pressing her jacket to his bleeding shoulder----

can see the Dark One’s left hand as it sucks power from Liam, the stream growing brighter, even black, it’s _glowing_ \----

can see Liam on his knees, razor wire around his neck, his mangled left hand still flung out, pinning Ashley to the wall, breathing harder and harder as the Dark One keeps siphoning---

 

And then Liam looks up and his eyes meet Killian’s.

_The eyes of his brother._

“Killian.”  Liam’s lips move, but the voice, _Liam’s_ voice, rings inside of his head.

As his right hand moves, picks up an object off the floor.

The dagger.

The dagger the Dark One dropped once he started fighting.

 

 _The dagger_.

 

And then Liam _throws_ it.  Not at Killian.  _To_ him.  It flies through the air in a perfect arc and lands, handle-first, in Killian’s outstretched palm.

“Killian.”  The voice in his mind is soft, but determined.  “It has to be me.”  And his brother smiles at him.

His _brother_ smiles at him.

This is Liam, breaking through the hold of the creature.  _Liam_.

 

Killian shakes his head in despair, because he can’t do what his brother is asking, could never do what his brother is asking.  Liam’s face changes, becomes relaxed, becomes peaceful, even in the middle of chaos raging, and the voice in his head says, “Release me.  Let go.”

 

Tears roll down Killian’s cheeks, and he doesn’t notice.

Pain explodes in his side, and he doesn’t notice.

The sounds of battle have all faded away.

He can’t see anyone but Liam, can’t feel a thing save for the dagger in his hand.  Heavy and solid and sharper than destiny.

 

He takes one step, and another, and another, until the distance between him and his brother is nothing more than an outstretched arm.  It feels like a thousand miles.

And Liam’s face is still smiling.  “You can save them all.”

Killian looks up, sees Belle collapsed on the ground, shrouded in dark smoke, and Emma, Emma---

Every muscle and tendon strained to the breaking point, but still fighting, still fighting; the veins in her neck still pumping blood; as she shakes and trembles and her magic grows dimmer, and her face contorts into a mask of pain---

And the voice comes again, utterly calm, wrapped into both conviction and forgiveness.  “You can save them, and save me.  Just let me go.”

  


With a howl Killian thrusts his hand forward, the dagger piercing Liam’s breastbone with ease; and he shoves it, _shoves it_ , down to the hilt, lets it go as if burnt, like his hand is on fire----

And Liam’s eyes grow soft, and kind, and _so grateful_.  His voice inside Killian’s mind whispers, _Thank you_.

And then Liam explodes into nothing but ash.

 

Killian can feel himself falling.

 

Beside him the Dark One howls as the pull of power simply cuts out.  And then another jet of magic bursts from Emma’s hands, forceful and powerful and brighter than lightning.

It sends a pressure wave spiralling out through the room, and he’s falling, he’s falling.

He can feel his life-force draining, bleeding out of him, thinks for a moment of _The Price Of The Dagger_. And then looks at Emma, brandishing magic like a fury unleashed, and the Dark One bowing and bending and withering beneath it, and he has to smile, because this is his Hunter, the love of his life, who will never be cowed.

And he does not mind the price he will pay.

 

He collides with the floor and sees the Dark One _evaporate_.

Disintegrate into nothing but thin air, leaving only an empty cloak on the ground.

They have won.

They have _won_.

 

He no longer feels pain, it just feels like he’s… fading.  It is such a relief.

And he can feel his eyes start to flutter closed.  His lids are so heavy.

 

From far, far away he hears _NO!_ and an eternity later Emma’s face appears above his own.  He forces his half-closed eyes to open and look.

Her cheeks are wet.

Her mouth is moving, and he can’t hear a sound, but it looks like _StayWithMe_.  He would like nothing more.  But he knows, he knows, this is the end of his road.

 

She’s safe.

They all are.

After all is said and done, _that_ is his legacy, and it is a good end to his terrible story.

 

He cannot lift his hand, although it cries out to touch her cheek one more time, feel her warmth, feel her skin, feel her life pulse beneath him.  But he can no longer move.

He gathers what little strength he has left, because there is one thing he has to tell her at all costs.  One thing she needs to know.

The last thing.

The most important thing.

 

_I love you._

  


Her eyes grow impossibly large and shiny, and he watches as she bends her head down towards him, brings her lips down to his, soft and safe and so full of----

 

Rainbow light explodes outwards in a blinding flash.

  


 

 

 

She can feel it the moment before her lips touch his.  Energy.

But this is different.  There is no pull.  There is nothing to drain her depleted reserves even further, this is energy _flooding_ her.  And when the rainbow light bursts forth, it _fills_ her.

Everything inside her that was hollow and broken and absolutely devastated just a moment ago, is now full of warmth.  And hope.  And love.

So much love.

 

And then his hand, which had been cold and lifeless in her own, squeezes.  And he opens his eyes.

Blue and soft and so very alive.

 

There is no fighting it.  Emma leans forward, puts her head on his chest, her ear to his beating heart, and _sobs_.  She can hardly breathe.  She listens to the sounds coming from her as if they were being made by a different person.  It’s almost alarming, the way she wails and hiccups and sounds like she’s choking.

But she can’t stop, because he was dead, he was _dead, goddammit,_ a minute ago, and now he’s _here_ , and he’s _warm_ , and his arms wrap around her like she is something worth holding on to.

She can feel him sit up and pull her in even closer, feel his hand gently pry her away from his chest, tilt her face towards his, and then he kisses her, soft and hungry and relieved and possessive all at once.

 

It is reassurance and affirmation and connection.

It is wonder and promise and hope and love.

It is the future, their future, a life spent together.

It is the end of being alone.

 

She cannot stop sobbing.

She can hear Belle in the background, waking up Ruby; she can hear Snow behind her, calmly comforting David; she can hear Ashley move past her to examine the cloak.

She can feel Killian’s hand as it tangles in her hair; she can feel his arm as it holds her tight; she can feel his breath across her cheek.

But she cannot stop sobbing.

 

“Emma.”  His voice is soft in her ear.  “Emma, it’s all right.”

He pulls her head towards his shoulder and just lets her lean on him and cry it out.  Just rubbing her back and not saying a word.  As if they were the only two people on earth, as if they had all the time in the world

And it is that thought that brings her up short.

They do.  They do have all the time in the world.

 

Emma laughs out loud.  “I am so stupid.”

Killian looks at her and smiles.  And god - his smile.  Happy.  Light.  _Free_.

“Here I am bawling when there’s absolutely no reason.”  Emma lifts her hand to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.  “We did it.”

Killian’s lips brush across hers, a whisper of a touch.  “You did it.”  His voice is low, and a little hoarse.

“We all did it,” she whispers, and then straightens up and starts to run her hand down his side.  “Are you--”

“Fine, love,” he says.  “Healed.”

“And the---”  She’s afraid to ask, even now.

The look he gives her nearly takes her breath away.  “True Love’s Kiss,” he whispers.  “Breaks every curse.”

 

She can’t bring herself to question it.  She has seen it.  And she feels it, down to the marrow of her bones.  Down to the core of her very soul.

 

It’s only then that she realizes they are alone.  “Where is everyone?”

Killian slowly runs his knuckles across her cheek, wiping away the last of her tears.  “They’re taking David back to the bar.”  Emma starts to get up, but he holds her back.  “He’ll be fine.  Snow is very proficient, as you may remember, and Ashley’s presumably a field medic by now.”

Emma slumps back into his arms and leans her forehead against his.  “So what now?”  Her voice is a whisper.  “Where do we go from here?”

“Home,” he says, and pulls back to look at her.  “And I don’t mean the bar, love.  I want us to make our own home.”  He cups her cheek.  “I want us to go somewhere and make a new life.  A life that belongs to us.”  He kisses her, soft and gentle, and it feels like a promise.  “I love you.”

 

A new life.

A new life that belongs to them.

 

“I love you so much,” she whispers.  It feels like freedom to say it out loud.

“I know.”  She smacks his arm, and Killian smiles at her again, and looks at her with soft, shining eyes.  “It’s you and me, my love.”  His eyes are burning into hers.  “You and me.  For the rest of our days.”

“You and me,” she answers, and leans into him.  “You and me for whatever may come.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


-/-

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

The full moon shines brightly on the calm waters where they dropped anchor.  On the two people lying out on the deck at the bow of the boat.  A man and a woman, the man lying on his back, his arm around the woman curled into his side, her ear to his heartbeat.

She lifts her head, kisses the underside of his jaw.  “Feel like howling at the moon?”

“I never _howled_.”  He laughs.  Warm and rich and happy.  “I know it should have lost its fascination by now, but somehow---”  His voice trails off.

“It’s OK,” she says.  “You were fighting it for a century.  That’s a long time.”

He sighs in response, drops a kiss to her head.

 

They’re quiet for a spell.  Just breathing together.

 

So much has happened.  So much has changed.

 

David and Snow run the bar now.  Killian simply gave it to them.  It was hard going at first, having a Hunter be part of this haven, but in the end one argument won out: Snow at the bar meant that no other Hunters would come knocking with ill intent.  Snow is convinced that that’s what made everyone finally come around.  David is convinced that Snow’s skin-tight leather pants had something to do with it.  Both are convinced that Ruby starting to tend bar as well helped a lot.  Ruby’s hot pants are a force to be reckoned with, after all.  The fact that she can shift into a wolf at a moment’s notice doesn’t hurt.  And the bar has had lots of new customers, looking for help.

Word gets around.

 

Belle and her library are officially part of the Hunters’ network now.  Their objective has changed.  Yes, some creatures are rotten to the core and need to be Hunted and neutralized.  But many beings are just angry and confused and afraid, turned and made and broken against their will, and those are the ones they now actively seek out, to whom they offer help and safety and alternatives.  The basement of Belle’s library is now a shelter for everyone who wants a fresh start.  There is a significant amount of vampires seeking refuge with her.  Belle knows that the packs won’t stand for that forever.  But she also knows that when trouble finally does come to town, she will not face it alone.

 

And that the first person to show up and defend her will be Ashley.

 

This is the oddest result of their fight against the Dark One: The vampire and the vampire Hunter becoming best friends.  While they still have trouble being in the same room together, they talk so often and at such length, that Ruby has taken to calling Ashley “The Mistress”.  Every time she does, Belle kisses her with such a lack of decency that everyone in a fifty foot radius blushes.  And Ruby has been known to murmur “I thought that was my line” when they break apart.  Belle just laughs.

 

And Emma and Killian have left the life and moved to a small town in Maine.

It turned out that Killian was in possession of several gold coins minted around 1880.  Just lying in his safe, untouched.  When Emma found them, he looked at her seriously and told her he had been saving them for a rainy day.  
And then Emma asked if he would consider investing them in a sunny day.

And he laughed and kissed her and told her she was brilliant.

 

So now they own a small cottage in a small town in Maine, not far from the water, and Killian owns a sailboat on which he takes tourists out to sea in the summer.

And Emma below decks as often as possible.

Emma, who now works as a deputy for the local sheriff and spends her days clearing up lawn ornament disputes and  occasional nights helping drunk tourists remember the names of their spouses.  And their hotels.

 

Emma still wakes up some mornings to the sounds of the surf and the seagulls, and sometimes to a feeling that is deeper than fear.  And Killian knows it every time.  After two years he can read her like a book, and on those mornings when she is afraid he just wraps himself around her and holds her as tightly as he can.  He doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t force her to talk, and he doesn’t tell her everything will be all right.  Just holds on to her and lets her catch her breath and she loves him for that more than she could possibly convey.  And he knows that, too.

 

 

Killian shifts Emma up, so he can look at her.  “Do you miss it, love?”

This is a question he does ask on occasion.  And Emma never fails to give the same answer.  “Not for a moment,” she says.  “Not for one single moment.”

His right hand rubs up and down her back slowly, and she is completely happy and content.  But tonight there is something she has to tell him.

She takes his left hand in hers.  It is the only thing True Love’s Kiss did not heal.  It’s still a twitching mess of scars, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  Less so now that a silver band encircles his ring finger.  It matches Emma’s.  She absentmindedly starts to play with it while he just looks at her and waits.

Waits for her to talk.

She loves that about him, too, the fact that he never pushes.  Just waits until she’s ready.

 

And ready she is.

 

“Killian,” she starts and then doesn’t know how to go on.  She takes a deep breath and clears her throat.  He’s still waiting, patient and calm and so, so sure.  Sure of her.

“I think it’s time.”

His eyebrows rise in confusion.  “Time, love?  Time for what?”

She pulls his hand in hers down between them and settles both on her stomach.  “Time for our next adventure.”  She looks up and smiles at him.  “I’m ready to try.”

 

God, the look he gives her.

Happy and hopeful and so full of love that she thinks she might shatter.

“Are you sure?”  His voice is a whisper.

Emma nods.  It’s time to stop running.  It’s time to admit to herself that this, _this_ is the life she wants.  That she has always wanted.  At the bottom of her heart - lonely and broken and armed to destruction before she met him - it is all she has ever wanted.

“Yes,” she says, and her voice has never been so certain.  “I love you, you know.”

 

His eyes shine for a moment and then he jumps up in one smooth movement.  Just plucks her off the deck and throws her over his shoulder.  She shrieks and laughs at the same time as he carries her below  and then plunks her on the bed in the captain’s cabin.

And then sits down beside her and cups her cheek.

“I don’t have a word big enough to tell you how much I love you,” he says, quietly.  And then runs his hand down her side until it settles on her belly.  “But if actions speak louder than words, I’m damn well going to try and show you.”

 

And with that he leans forward to kiss her, and Emma knows that this is _forever_ , and that they are never letting go.

  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you wonderful, beautiful people -- WE MADE IT.

**Author's Note:**

> ...uhm, yes, i'm diving back into another involved multi-chapter storyline, why do you ask?  
> i promise, the title makes no reference to me and /or how i think writing this story is going to go.
> 
> But i do have a few ideas for this one, and it might take me a few chapters to tell them.  
> Anyone up for a ride?


End file.
